


Winter's Tale

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Mystrade, Greg has flu, M/M, Mycroft rescues his goldfish, Protective Mycroft, Sickfic, Winter, fledgling relationship, mystrade, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5481728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly Christmas, and Greg is not feeling well and also finding it difficult to get home, although he isn't looking forward to his first Christmas alone after the divorce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Another Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Krekta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krekta/gifts).



> Happy Christmas to my lovely friend, Krekta, and to all of you lovely readers out there. Fluff will follow soon, promise. Just so you know, I have changed the rating due to adult content now.

_If I hear that bloody song once more…_ Greg had really had enough of Christmas already and the day hadn’t even arrived yet. He sniffed, feeling the familiar burn at the back of his throat. He coughed experimentally. _Great, I'm coming down with something._ He exhaled a huge sigh and set himself off coughing for real this time. _Bastard of a Christmas! Okay, so it's only Christmas Eve but still..._

Every radio station was blaring Christmas hits but if anybody else played Winter’s Tale, Fairytale of New York or Mistletoe and Wine once more...well, he already felt like screaming. Once upon a time he had actually liked songs like that. Now, though, all they did was stir up old memories, and with those came the resentments. “Why should the world take notice of one more love that's failed?” sang the tinny voice over the radio. _Why indeed?_ Greg frowned. Grumpily he had to admit that not all the lyrics fit. He wasn’t sure if theirs had been ‘a love that could never be’. After all, his marriage could have worked, but the lyrics were right when David Essex sang “though it meant a lot to you and me.” It had, to both of them. There had been something there once. They had loved each other, once upon a time. That was the tragedy, he supposed.

“What’s the matter, sir?” Sally was standing at the door and he hadn’t heard her arrive.

“Nothing, why?” Greg wasn't about to admit that he wasn't looking forward to his first Christmas alone.

“Just the look on your face, that’s all. 'Tis the season to be jolly', after all. I don’t believe looking like the Freak just showed you up again is supposed to be part of it.”

Greg patted his chest. "Not feeling fantastic, I think I must be coming down with something..."

"Go home then, Boss. Get yourself a hot Toddy and go to bed," she suggested.

In his younger days, before Greg had gone all out for promotion, he and his wife had been happy. Sure enough they had been through their share of ups and downs just like any other couple; disagreements, arguments, not seeing eye to eye, _but that was all part of it, wasn’t it?_ Back before either of them really had much clue about marriage, never mind about what a copper’s life would come to mean to the wife waiting at home (wondering if her husband would come home late, or sometimes even come home at all), before then it was safe to say that it had even been idyllic. He had been romantic, bringing her flowers or chocolates or other little gifts, leaving little love notes attached to the fridge door, posting love letters that would arrive in the morning mail when he was at work. Something had gone awry as soon as his promotion to sergeant had come through though. It had meant longer hours as he was working on bigger cases and then...then she had no longer been interested in listening to him talk about work. She had begun to shut down, unwilling to listen to the grisly details. _No one could exactly blame her,_ he thought. Some of the cases he had dealt with over the years had been terrible; mutilations, serial killings, dead kids, blood splattering the walls and the floors so badly it had been sticky underfoot… Greg sighed. He was on a Murder Investigation Team, part of Homicide and Serious Crimes; it was what he did, what he was good at. _What a wonderful thing to think about at this time of year,_ he considered. It was no wonder it had gone from bad to worse, though. While he had wanted to protect her from it, venting the worst of his issues to a counsellor instead, he had grown to resent that she didn’t seem to want to help him at all.

“Thank you, Sally. I was just about to suggest you lot get off home. I’ve got some stuff to do but frankly, it can wait until after the festive season. Go home, be normal, put your feet up…”

She snorted. “Hardly. I’m heading home for the holidays. Six cousins, their partners, ten kids, four aunts and uncles, grandparents, and my mum…and I'm still single.” She rolled her eyes at him.

“So you’ll need the extra time for wrapping presents. Get gone.” She hadn’t required much persuading.

“We’re going to the pub, sir,” Jones had said. “Want to come?”

“No, thanks, Alan, but I think I'm coming down with something. I feel shit, frankly. I’ve work to finish, then I can go home and put my feet up with a clear conscience, a good brandy and a couple of paracetamol for company. Looking forward to the peace and quiet actually. Now go.” He had only been half-fibbing about how he was feeling. Greg could feel his headache worsening. Frankly the whole idea of Christmas wasn’t appealing any more anyway, not on his own.

He sniffed and coughed, cursing the moronic felons who had showered him with germs last week. It was starting to feel like it might be turning into Flu'. He hadn’t been sleeping well and with the decree nisi going through, being a free man wasn’t all it was cracked up to be either. Sally had seemed to be trying to hook him up with every eligible female on the force. Several had come by the office in the last week, on the premise of handing over Christmas cards to Sally. Greg shook his head. It didn’t take Sherlock’s insight to deduce they were checking him out. He ignored them all, playing the antisocial hand, taking a leaf out of Sherlock’s book and treating them to a blast of short temper and irritability. Sally looked exasperated. “Don’t worry, Sally,” Greg had commiserated, his voice carrying a slight snark. “Look on the bright side. You never had so many lovely cards before.”

So here it was, Christmas Eve. If he allowed the others to go early, then it was because he was being nice, wasn't it, not because he wanted to be alone? There were some loose ends to tie up which were a good excuse to stay. _Why bother going home early, after all? Not like there’s anyone there to greet me_. Greg glanced out of the window to see snow blowing almost horizontally outside the glass, the predicted “turn for the worse” in the weather looking as though it, too, was taking the piss. Not only would he be spending Christmas alone, at home, but he would have to drive through a white-out to get there. Assuming he could actually get through it all safely.

**0o0o0o0o0o0o**

_Well, wasn't this just adding insult to injury? Fucking useless excuse for a car!_ Greg knew it was idiocy to walk home in such bad weather but there were suddenly fewer options that would enable him to actually get home. _There isn’t much else I can do_ , he thought morosely, putting his collar up against the wind. When he had finally called it a day and gone down to the car park it was to find that his car wouldn’t start, and that was the icing on the bloody cake. Late Christmas Eve and his car had packed in. _Fan-bloody-tastic_. The lads from the police garage had all gone home, there was nobody else around to ask. It was still snowing, the gritted tarmac was freezing fast, the snow had laid a few inches in a few hours. Greg called the roadside recovery company.

Two hours, three crap coffees and one irate phone call with a lot of swearing in it later the recovery company finally turned up. Well, one man in a van did.

“Sorry, Squire. Was called south of the river. Traffic’s proper gridlocked over the bridge. It’s this bloody snow. I should’a put a pony on it being a white Christmas. I’d’a been quids in there…” Greg listened with barely concealed impatience, valiantly trying to tamp down his temper. The man slid into the driving seat and tried to turn the engine over. Of course nothing happened. He tutted and lifted the bonnet, poked about in the engine for a while, then went back to his van to rummage in his tool kit. When he came back he asked some questions, tested some things, then poked about a bit more. “Sorry, Squire. Nothing I can do.”

“What? What do you mean, nothing you can do? I need to get home!” Greg stared at him in horror.

“Sorry, Guvnor. It’s your alternator fan. The belt’s sheared and wrapped itself around the blades. You need it towing to a garage. Can’t the lads ‘ere do anything?”

“Nobody on duty tonight,” Greg said flatly. “It’s Christmas.”

The man merely nodded and started putting his kit away. “Sorry, Guv, but there’s nothing more I can manage. I haven’t got the parts in the van to fix it, it’s a specialist repair.”

“Well, can you get me home?”

“Sorry, Guv. Not allowed to. Your insurance only covers roadside assistance.”

“Can’t you...I dunno, patch it up enough to get me home?”

“Look, Mate, it’s not a quick repair job, I’m afraid. It’s a proper mess.”

When Greg asked if he could get a lift home, even part way there, the driver said he wasn’t allowed to give customers lifts, company policy. Greg had a good idea that the man obviously just wanted to get home, like any sane person on Christmas Eve.  _Who can blame him,_ Greg thought?

He checked his watch. After all that faffing around, it was late, nearly 10.40pm. The underground had stopped running over an hour ago. He called the three cab firms on his phone, one didn't pick up at all, the other two quoted at least an hour’s wait. _At least._ There might be buses still working but they would be on reduced service at best. It took him two buses and a long walk on a normal working day anyway, which was why he drove or used the tube. _Damn, might as well walk it and hope to pick up a black cab._ He was not spending Christmas Eve night at the Yard and if he did there would be no public transport tomorrow anyway. Maybe there would be a stray taxi he could bribe into taking him across the river.

The snow had stopped and he took the decision to start walking. Despite the fact that he wasn't really dressed properly for this he was still determined to try. It was hard going, but there were lights and Christmas trees and decorations in windows and a few people going home late like himself, laughing and lurching along through the snow, half-drunk already but disappearing into pubs for a last minute top-up. Greg watched enviously but it was his own fault. He had been offered such an opportunity and had refused. Maybe it was the company. He could only stand so much of Anderson and Dimmock and Gregson and Jones. Maybe he didn’t want to share his Christmas with them as well. _Going to the pub might have been a way to get a lift home though,_ he thought. No, he was too bloody proud. He didn’t want to be beholden to any of them. Besides, if past experience was anything to go by they would start asking uncomfortable questions or trying to get him a date with random women at the bar. Then there was the whole embarrassing thing of getting a lift which would mean inviting them in and the place was a mess and he had nothing to drink and it was bloody obvious why his wife wasn’t there anymore because he was a sad old man who loved his job more than he had loved her. _Bollocks!_

Scowling, he continued stubbornly on. As if that wasn’t enough, it began to snow again. Eventually walking degenerated into trudging. His feet were cold and wet and he was losing the feeling in his extremities. He thrust his hands in his pockets and huddled deeper into his scarf but it didn’t improve matters. He wondered about calling on Sherlock at 221b but he doubted he would be that welcome. Not to mention he was miles away and decided against walking twice as far as need be. _Besides, what could he do?_ They didn’t have a car and Greg knew he would most probably end up sleeping on the sofa.

So he trudged on as the weather got worse and the snow began to fall in earnest. The wind was getting up, hurling the blizzard of fat flakes into his face, blanketing everything including his hair and shoulders and soaking his coat. His toes were beginning to hurt and his throat wasn't far behind. Every taxi he saw, and there weren't many, was carrying someone. One pulled over a few yards ahead but someone else jumped in before he could get there. Besides, in these conditions it was hard to see anything, never mind a taxi. The drivers wouldn’t be able to see him very well either. He kept going but the trudging was turning into something harder. Shapes moved past him, whether people or not he had no idea. The snow and the dark and the cold began to bite at him. He wondered where he was. He had to go another few hundred yards before a street sign told him he was way off. He was in some little garden surrounded by Victorian houses of which there were dozens in London. _Must have missed my turning a long time ago._

He crossed the road, looking for the right way out of the square, aware that he was now beginning to shiver. _Shit._ He took shelter in a random doorway for a moment, looking at the whiteout and considering that this had been a serious miscalculation. His throat felt raw, he could feel himself getting hotter despite the chills, and his nose was even more stuffed. His cough had developed into something that a consumptive Victorian heroine would have been proud of. The virus was making his nose run, and his head was throbbing. He had been taking paracetamol and drinking vitamin C all day but it looked like this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Melted snow trickled down his neck and he fancied he could hear it sizzle on his overheated skin. He dragged his phone out and dithered underneath a lamp post. _Like bloody Lily Marlene,_ he thought. _Or a prostitute._ Although any prostitute out on a night like this had to be certifiably crazy. The pool of light did nothing to warm him up.

Further action was preempted by the arrival of a large black vehicle that whispered to a halt alongside him less than a minute later. This one was a large 4x4, still black and sleek, but obviously possessed of an overdrive capability to allow its tyres to grip pretty much anything, snow drifts and sheet ice included. The door opened and Greg caught a glimpse of black umbrella. Mycroft Holmes leaned forward and took in Greg’s condition at a swift glance. Greg tried, and possibly failed, to keep the relief from his expression, despite the irony of the situation; being rescued from a blizzard by the Ice Man himself...

“My dear detective inspector, the weather conditions have you at a disadvantage, do they not? Please allow me to offer you a lift?”

Greg was not going to stare a gift horse in the mouth, absolutely not, not even if said gift horse was the British Government itself. He climbed gratefully inside. The relief was almost overwhelming. Greg had not realised just how worried he had been. The interior of the plush vehicle smelled of expensive leather, warm and reassuring. In the corner, ever present umbrella clutched in one hand, sat his saviour, Sherlock's brother. Greg felt monumentally embarrassed for allowing himself to get into such a predicament and for dripping melted snow all over the posh seats. A hand towel materialised in Mycroft’s hand and was passed wordlessly to Greg. The bloody thing was actually warm too. Greg applied it to his face and hair, trying to take off the worst of the wet and reveling in the small comfort it gave him. “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” he found his voice to say. “I hope you know how much I appreciate this.”

Mycroft smiled, an actual honest-to-God friendly smile. “Please, call me Mycroft," he said warmly. "This is certainly not a strain upon my resources. I was on my way home myself when your predicament came to light so your timing could not have been better. How are you feeling now? If I may be so bold, you do look a little careworn. Are you quite alright?”

“Yeah, I will be,” Greg said, sniffing dramatically, carefully not enquiring as to how his predicament had come to light. “Sorry," he wheezed. "I’ve been staving off a head cold all week.” A crisp white handkerchief appeared a moment later in a similar way to the towel. Greg wondered briefly what else Mycroft Holmes might have up his sleeve.

“Keep it,” Mycroft said and Greg nodded his thanks and blew his nose rather loudly. “Do you need a doctor?”

“Course not, no, I’ll be fine,” Greg protested. “Cough, slight fever, chills... I really just want to get home and relax, go to bed…” He flexed his aching shoulders and grunted softly with the effort. “I’ll be okay with some painkillers and hot tea.”

“You are very late. Did something keep you back?”

 _As if you didn’t know_ , Greg found himself thinking but said nothing. “Just finishing some stuff up before I left, then my car wouldn’t start.” He sighed. “Recovery truck didn’t turn up for a couple of hours and then the mechanic said he couldn’t repair the car, it would need a garage and of course everywhere is shut for the holidays now. Couldn’t even ask the guys in the police garage to have a look, they’d all gone home too. Then the bloke refused to give me a lift, said his insurance didn’t cover carrying customers. Too late to get the tube and there weren’t many cabs. Haven’t seen a bus either." He forced a laugh. "Wouldn’t know which one to get anyway. Always use the car...”

“You didn’t call Sherlock?”

“Why should I? He doesn’t have a car and I didn’t want to have him come rescue me. I do have my pride.”

“And yet, you accepted a lift from me,” Mycroft purred, putting his head on one side as if trying to work out Greg’s motivation on that one.

“I have my pride, but I’m not completely daft,” Greg defended. “The conditions out there are...a bit not good, to say the least.” Mycroft nodded agreement. “Okay, I know it was stupid to try walking so far really. I'm not equipped for a polar expedition!" Thankfully Mycroft chuckled politely at his lame joke. "I honestly should have known better. People have ended up with hypothermia and frostbite for less, but...I really wanted to just get home.”

“And unfortunately those same conditions are unlikely to let up anytime soon. The bookmakers will be disappointed tomorrow. They will all have to pay out for a white Christmas. So is your wife expecting you?”

 _Wow, Holmesy, way to go with the leading questions._ Greg’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure what to say. _Does Mycroft not know what’s happened?_ Greg knew he would be surprised if Sherlock hadn’t told his brother all the juicy details, but then, was his marital status of interest to either of them, beyond its value as an “I told you so” cautionary tale? “Er...no,” Greg said quietly. “She...um... she’s with… with her mother.” If Mycroft detected the lie, he was careful not to deduce otherwise, unlike Sherlock who had no compunction in airing Greg’s dirty laundry in public and would have had no hesitation in pointing out that his wife had in fact shacked up with the PE teacher and was doing very nicely, thank you.

“You have separated at last,” was all Mycroft said, stating it as fact, he wasn’t asking. His voice was devoid of emotion too, he spoke as if it were a simple observation.

“Divorced now, actually,” Greg admitted. “We split—amicably— about eight months ago.” For some reason Greg felt the need to emphasis the fact that the separation was agreeable to both of them and they hadn’t argued about any of it. It was as if they were both too tired of their situation to care. Besides, she had found someone else, someone who was— according to her—there for her, wherever there was. Greg had thought he had been there for her, rather more than she was there for him at any rate, but obviously she hadn’t shared his opinion.

“Your first Christmas alone then?” Mycroft sounded slightly scandalised.

“Yeah... just another day, really. Why?”

“Gregory, nobody should be alone during the festive season.” Mycroft said it as though replying to a child.

“Aren’t you?” Greg shot back.

“My point exactly. Allow me to spirit you away to spend the holiday with me.”

“Eh?” Greg wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“Come home with me, and then I can see that you’re properly looked after.”

“But look at me, I’m not very well. You might catch it…”

“Nonsense. While I am touched by your concern, I have prudently had my flu inoculation and I do have a rather robust constitution anyway. I also think this may just be an upper respiratory infection, not influenza. Besides, you would certainly not be in my way and that means that two people will not be alone for Christmas.”

“I couldn’t impose...” Greg refused even as he yearned to say yes, to have some company if nothing else.

“Yes, you can. In fact, I won’t hear of you going home alone. In your condition that would not be safe at all.” Mycroft leaned forward, then he paused, turning to look at Greg, apparently waiting for him to agree to his own kidnapping. Greg sighed and rolled his eyes, then he nodded once. Mycroft smiled and rapped on the privacy screen between themselves and the driver up front. “James, my house if you please, post haste. We’re kidnapping Detective Inspector Lestrade for the holidays.”

“Very good, sir,” the chauffeur replied as if he heard admissions of kidnap from his employer every day. _Maybe he does_ , Greg thought, _and that’s a bloody scary thought._


	2. Fever Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At home with Mycroft....

The car pulled up alongside the kerb outside a large white townhouse somewhere in Belgravia. The porch was one of those large enclosing square affairs, like something out of Downton Abbey. The driver got out and came around to open the door, doing his best to shield the two men with a huge umbrella on their short journey across the two yards of pavement to the porch. The door was opened by a slim young woman clad in the typically neat black uniform of maid’s everywhere. She smiled at her boss and took his coat.

“Welcome home, sir.” She looked expectantly at Greg and he shrugged his own rather wet coat off and handed it over. She smiled at him kindly as he stood there dripping on the mat.

“Thank you, Janet. Detective Inspector Lestrade here will be joining us for the duration of the Christmas holiday. Would you ask Mrs Lewis to sort out a guest room for him? Give her my apologies for the short notice and please let her know that the Amber Room will be more than suitable.” The girl nodded, tucked Greg’s coat with Mycroft’s over a slim arm and hurried off.

A huge Christmas tree dominated the oak-panelled hallway, festooned in rather patriotic red, white and blue baubles, draped with a tasteful amount of silver tinsel. Tiny lights winked between the boughs. Festive garlands of greenery were draped over strategic bits of architecture and more strings of lights adorned the windows. It looked so very un-Mycroftian that curiosity got the better of him. “Who put all this up?”

“Oh, my staff,” Mycroft explained. “They adore the festive season and I don’t want to be a Scrooge. They look after me too well for me not to allow certain...liberties." He paused, regarding the decorations with a smile. Greg wasn’t sure if he wasn’t hallucinating. This was a very different animal from the Mycroft Holmes Sherlock looked on as his nemesis. "Come along,” Mycroft was saying. “You should have a drink to warm you while the housekeeper gets your room ready and then you should probably get a bath, warm yourself up properly. Or a shower, if you prefer. All the bedrooms have ensuite facilities. You can soak at your leisure. Cook will have retired for the night but I am going to arrange for food to be sent to us. What do you prefer? Chinese? Cantonese? Thai perhaps, or Indian? What about Italian?”

“At this time, on Christmas Eve? Where on earth will still be open?”

“Oh, don’t concern yourself with that. I have my resources. Now, your preference?”

“Thai or Chinese, please. Antidote to turkey.”

Mycroft showed Greg into a room that was obviously a living space, dark wood panelling and mullioned windows bespeaking a certain Victorian Arts and Crafts style. A huge flat screen television dominated one wall, a few choice pieces of antique furniture were placed strategically here and there, and comfortable leather sofas and armchairs were gathered around the fireplace, a real fire crackling in the grate. Heavy velvet drapes covered the windows, effectively shutting out the cold and the dark. It was opulent, cosy and intimate all at once. Greg admired the various paintings on the wall while Mycroft poured them both a glass of something expensive. Unless he was mistaken, and Greg was the first to admit his knowledge of art was limited to whatever had sunk in at school, which honestly wasn’t a lot given his attitude at the time, he was viewing honest-to-God original paintings of the variety usually only seen on the walls of the National Gallery. In one particular one that caught his eye the ladies looked a bit Jane Austen and the pastoral landscape was overshadowed by clouds and trees. Mycroft came up beside him and handed him a cut crystal tumbler with a generous amount of amber liquid sloshing around inside.

"It’s a Vernet,” he said, rather proudly. “Our three times Great Grandfather.”

“Wow, really?” Greg smiled. “My family is part French too, you know. Great Grandad on my dad’s side, hence the name. Not so famous though.” He took a sip from his glass to find it was very good single malt. “Oo, that...that’s good.” It burned a fiery trail to his empty stomach. “Better not have too much, though. I’ve been taking painkillers, and I've not eaten since lunchtime."

“A regrettable habit, Gregory. However, as you well know I also work in a job that places burdensome demands upon me. Anthea is often the one to remind me to eat at the appropriate time.” Somewhere a small bell chimed and Mycroft looked up. “Your room is ready,” he said, reaching to take the glass from Greg’s hand. Their fingers brushed and a small tingle shot down Greg’s spine at the touch. Their eyes met, Mycroft’s guarded, Greg’s curious. “I suggest you settle in. Janet will show you the way. Refresh yourself and then it is my hope that dinner will be with us.”

Greg tore his eyes away and nodded. “Yes, okay, right then…Where is it?”

Mycroft smiled and opened the door. Janet was waiting patiently outside. “Janet, Inspector Lestrade requires his room please. I shall see you later, Gregory.”

Upstairs, the door Janet opened for him gave into a frankly huge and very well-appointed bedroom done out in shades of dark blue, amber and gold, with comfortable furnishings and antique brass fittings. Dark velvet curtains similar to those in the room downstairs were drawn against the snow storm outside. There was a new soft fleece robe laid out on the bed, accompanying a new set of pajamas, and a pair of slippers sat on the floor beneath. Greg was nonplussed but grateful. He had no idea why Mycroft would go as far as this to make him feel comfortable and welcome. This smacked of more than just a day's worth of forward planning.

Greg undressed and threw on the soft robe, then he went to investigate the bathroom. He found a room the size of his bedroom at home, equally as comfortable in temperature as the bedroom. Glossy green-glazed tiles covered the lower half of the walls, the upper half painted a neutral cream. The quarry-tiled floor was warm from the underfloor heating and fluffy towels were absorbing the heat from a radiator rail. A shower sat in one corner behind its curved screen of frosted glass. A rectangular white enamel sink and old fashioned toilet with an overhead cistern and chain completed the set. Greg rarely bathed, preferring the speed of a shower in the mornings, but the enormous white enamel bath that stood on brass ball and claw feet in the middle of the room beckoned to him enticingly. He turned the hot tap full on and steam began to fill the room. He sniffed a couple of the bottles of bubble bath, chose one scented with cinnamon and oranges and poured a generous amount under the gushing tap. Sinking into the hot water, he couldn’t suppress a soft grateful moan in response to the pleasure of it as it soothed his aching muscles and warmed his toes. The chills were dissipating but tiredness was catching up on him.

A knocking on the door woke him some indefinable time later. His skin was wrinkled from being in the water too long and he sat up with a start, creating a bow wave that nearly overflowed the bath. The door opened and Mycroft stuck his head around it. He suppressed a smile. “I thought you might have drowned. Are you alright?”

“Yes, thanks. Tired. Dozed off...” Greg actually blushed, he was embarrassed to note. He covered by scrubbing his face with wet hands to wake himself up. He was glad he was mostly covered by the bubbles.

“That’s fine, take as long as you wish but the food has arrived. It is ready when you are. Apologies for disturbing your ablutions. I was a little concerned in case you came to harm.”

“No, that's fine, thanks. I’m okay. Won’t be long.” Greg started washing himself off with soap and a flannel and scrubbed at his damp hair as Mycroft beat a retreat. He did not see the flush to Mycroft’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat of the bathroom.

Greg unwrapped the set of sleep clothes—they really couldn’t be called pajamas—when he emerged, damp but a lot warmer, from the bathroom. The pants were soft brushed cotton, but the t-shirt top was jersey knit, flowing over his chest and showing every bump and bulge he had, which at his age wasn’t necessarily a good thing. However, the dressing gown hid a lot of what the pyjamas revealed. The slippers fit, leaving Greg wondering when Mycroft had snuck in and taken his measurements. He towelled his hair dry and yawned, forcing himself to go eat something and not keel over on the bed to simply sleep.

When he arrived in the hallway downstairs, the lighting now muted, Greg stood there feeling lost. Janet was nowhere in sight and he had no idea where to go. Suddenly a door opened. “Ah, there you are,” Mycroft said, pausing slightly to take in his guest's pajama-clad form before beckoning him in. “Do come along before all this gets cold…”

A number of boxes and packets littered the long mahogany table in what must be the dining room. Greg couldn’t help noticing that the boxes all had Savoy Hotel printed on the side. “What would you like?” Mycroft asked. “I understand if your appetite might be a little suppressed but you should try to eat something.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here and not in bed,” Greg explained with a smile. He picked up a container. “I wasn’t aware that the Savoy Hotel had a takeaway service.” Greg had envisioned Mycroft calling on some open-all-hours cafeteria that serviced MI6, but not this.

“Oh, it doesn’t.” Mycroft's smile was smug. Greg was absolutely certain he detected a mischievous glint in his eyes as well. “The Head Chef is a personal friend,” Mycroft explained. “He owed me a small favour.”

Greg could not suppress an eye roll at that revelation. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Mycroft spent his entire life making connections, garnering favours and forging alliances. Like his brother, he was charismatic, charming when he wanted to be, but unlike Sherlock, Mycroft could be diplomatic where Sherlock was tactless, he was commanding where his younger brother was simply irritating. Right now, he was looking rather dashing in a dark blue silk waistcoat with a gold watch chain arrayed across it, his jacket off, the pale blue of his shirt sleeves exposed and cufflinks glittering in the overhead light. His grey trousers and dark shoes completed the ensemble and made Greg feel rather exposed. He huddled into his gown and hunched over the table.

“In answer to your question, anything will be good, thanks.” He chose that moment to sneeze several times, thankfully into the handkerchief Mycroft had given him earlier. At least he'd thought to shove it in his pocket before he came down. The velocity of the last one jarred his head and made everything throb. He emitted a soft groan and held his head in his hands.

“How awful do you feel?” Mycroft’s tone was concerned, actually loaded with sympathy. “I must admit you are not looking your best right now, Gregory.”

“I dunno, I’m aching and tired. Really Mycroft, I’ll be fine.”

“You should have some paracetamol. They should make things more bearable for you. There’s a packet there on the table.” Greg blearily peered at the table and located the packet; it was hiding behind one of the two steaming mugs that were already present and Mycroft pushed one toward him and offered the sugar. Even his mugs were elegant; white bone china, almost hourglass in design, a delicate willow pattern and gold line around the rim. Greg spooned a generous amount of sugar into his tea and stirred, his actions slow and deliberate. Mycroft tutted softly and took possession of the box of paracetamol, prized two pills out of the blister pack, then handed them over to Greg with that warm smile still carefully in place. Greg ignored the accidental brush of fingertips across his palm as the pills changed hands. Dutifully, he swallowed them and chased them down with the tea. “Ah,” he sighed appreciatively. “Now I feel a bit more human.”

A plate of food appeared in front of him and Mycroft sat opposite, fork in hand. “I’m honestly glad you agreed to come,” he said, a little awkwardly but sincerely.

“I’m honestly glad I did,” Greg grinned and yawned. “Sorry, been a hell of a day.”

“So I can see.” Mycroft tucked into his food, watching as Gregory forked a mouthful of chicken rice and chewed.

“This is good. Are you seriously telling me you got the Savoy Hotel's Head Chef to make you Chinese food?” Mycroft only smiled and savoured a piece of sweet and sour, chewing thoughtfully.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Greg was shaken gently awake as the church bells let them know it was very early in the morning. He jerked upright and found Mycroft’s restraining hand on his shoulder. “Be calm, Gregory. It’s quite alright. You dozed off and I didn’t have the heart to move you.” He was lying along the sofa in the sitting room. A blanket had been draped across him, he noted.

“Damn, sorry. What time is it?” They had retreated to the comfort of the living room once they had finished eating, which didn’t take Greg long. Despite his determination to eat, he really had very little appetite.

“Very early. Somewhere close to Matins on Christmas day.”

“Christmas day? Bugger…” He looked at Mycroft who seemed quite alert. “Don’t you sleep?”

“Of course I do, although I typically do not need more than three hours. You on the other hand…”

“Damn, I didn’t buy you a present...”

Mycroft smiled at the small outburst and shook his head. "Worry not, Gregory. Oddly enough, the fact that you are here is gift enough. I seem to have spent rather too many Christmases in a solitary fashion. Come on now though, you need your bed.” An arm snaked around his shoulders and he was helped to his feet. Greg had to admit to himself that he was feeling dreadful. “I think you should stay a few days,” Mycroft was saying. “At least until you feel well enough to go back to work. You are rather pale, and your temperature is up. I rather think my earlier diagnosis was a little premature. Come along to bed.” Greg was guided along to his room with a firm hand held supportively under his elbow. They walked slowly, and Mycroft steadied him gently when he wobbled slightly. Once they were inside Greg's room, Mycroft pulled the covers of the bed back and then solicitously helped Greg take off his robe. Mycroft eased his guest into bed and expensive Egyptian cotton slid cooly again Greg’s hands as he settled back against soft pillows. 

“That...feels really good,” Greg admitted, relaxing against the comfort. Much, much better than his own bed would have been with its lumpy mattress and cheap 300-count sheets. 

“Sleep if you can, I’ll be up for a while yet and then I’ll only be in the next room. I have Christmas wishes to extend to certain corners of the Commonwealth that rely on being up at this hour. I'll check on you later but in the meantime call if you need anything."  Greg nodded and closed his eyes. Sleep sounded like a very good idea. 

He surfaced several times during the night, once hearing Mycroft speaking quietly but urgently into his mobile phone. He drifted in a semi-conscious stupor, unable to pull himself out fully into wakefulness. He must have made some noise or other, because Mycroft came close to the bed and then sat down on it, murmuring something soothing. Some time later Greg surfaced enough to hear a voice that was familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. He felt hands on him, moving his clothing aside, and a slightly cold touch against his skin. He squirmed but a firm hand on his shoulder stilled him. 

“It’s okay, mate, try to relax. You’ll be okay.” 

“How is he?” Mycroft’s voice, worried. 

“Heart rate is fine, his blood pressure is within normal parameters. Temperature is on the high side, but my guess is he's compounded all this by working too hard and ignoring the symptoms, again." The tone sounded affectionate but slightly exasperated. "No, it’s okay, you did the right thing...keep an eye on him, just in case. If he gets worse, call 999 but right now I'd say what he needs is to sleep it off…” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg woke to full daylight, although the heavy curtains kept it muted, thankfully. He lay there quietly for a long time, wondering at the weird dream he’d had. However, when he tried to move he found he ached abominably. His nose was still stuffed and his throat still sore. He glanced over at the clock to find it was nearly two in the afternoon. A small packet sat near the clock, with a note, which said “To Gregory. Merry Christmas. Thank you for saving me, M.” Greg frowned. He had thought it was the other way around. He opened the box and grinned. Inside were a pair of silver cufflinks, shaped like old-fashioned Derby handcuffs, a small crystal stone in the lock of each one. Mycroft had a very unexpected sense of humour. 

Greg lay back into the warmth and comfort of the pillows wondering if Mycroft would mind very much if he stayed where he was. He didn’t really fancy getting up, never mind getting dressed. He only had his stale work clothes to get dressed in anyway. Hardly a way to spend Christmas day. As if on cue, the door opened. Greg cast a curious look at the strange man who stood framed in the doorway. He had to be in his sixties at least, and carried himself with dignity. He was clad in an immaculate dark grey suit and a dark green apron, and was carrying the kind of tray that hotels and hospitals serve breakfast in bed on. 

“Good day, sir,” he said, his baritone voice soothing on the ear. “My name is Bennett, Mr Holmes’ butler. He sent me along with your breakfast. He felt certain you would prefer to remain in bed on account of your indisposition. You had quite a disturbed night, I am afraid. May I offer you the complements of the season, sir?” 

“Thank you,” Greg replied, bemused by this turn of events. “Same to you.” 

The butler—Bennett—nodded and smiled and deposited the tray on a nearby table, then made his way to the bed, seemingly unphased by the presence of the man in it. He held out a hand and silently offered to help Greg sit, then arranged his pillows behind him and settled him back, making sure he was comfortable before retrieving the tray, deftly unfolding its legs and settling it over Greg’s knees. There was a plate of cooked breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, beans and tomatoes—kept warm under a metal dome which Bennett removed with a flourish. A little rack of carefully trimmed triangular pieces of toast sat behind the plate, not a trace of crust left in sight. A small pot of butter curls and another small pot of marmalade sat conveniently nearby. A small cut-crystal tumbler of fresh orange juice sat beside a steaming cup of tea, a tiny sugar bowl nearby, and to finish the effect a little white china vase with a single red rose— _seriously, where does Mycroft get red roses at this time of year?_ —had been placed behind the teacup. 

Bennett took the napkin and unfolded it, spreading it over Greg’s lap. “Will that be all, sir?” he intoned and Greg nodded. 

“Yes, thank you, Mr Bennett. Oh, could you give Mr Holmes a message?” 

“Certainly, sir,” Bennett replied. 

“Tell him... would you inform Mr Holmes that I’ll see him later? I don’t feel really able to get up... to rise just yet.” 

Bennett smiled warmly. “Of course, sir. Should you require anything, do not hesitate to call me.” 

“Call you? How?” 

"There is a button on the wall, sir, just there.” Bennet showed him the little brass button on the wall to the left of the bed. “It rings near the kitchen, sir. Just press it once and either I or the Cook will hear you. When you are finished with your tray, please press the button and I will come post haste to remove it. Will there be anything else, sir?” 

“What? Oh, no, nothing else, for now. Thank you.” Greg watched as Bennett withdrew discreetly, wondering what made a man choose such a profession. 

Despite the appetizing food, Greg couldn’t make himself eat more than a few mouthfuls. He was, if anything, feeling nauseous. He forced himself to drink the orange for the vitamin C, and the tea, knowing he needed the fluids, and managed a piece of toast with marmalade, but he couldn't face more. He needed painkillers and more sleep. He pressed the button after only ten minutes and Bennett appeared shortly thereafter and removed the tray. “I’m sorry, Mr Bennett, it was lovely but I’ve not much in the way of an appetite.” 

Bennett smiled and nodded. “You have no requirement to apologize to me, sir. If I may, I would respectfully suggest that I fetch you a carafe of fruit juice and another of water. I believe that plenty of fluids are required in this instance.” 

Greg smiled and nodded. “Good idea. Paracetamol too if you have any.” Bennett returned in minutes with a packet of paracetamol tablets and the promised carafes. The butler poured out a glass each of juice and water and then withdrew again. A while later, Greg was dozing when there was a soft knock on the door. It opened and Mycroft put his head around, smiling when his eyes met Greg’s. 

“How is sir feeling?” he asked, one corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “Bennett gave me your message.” 

“Sir is feeling pretty crap, thank you.” 

Mycroft’s expression turned sympathetic. “May I come in, Gregory?” 

“You need to ask? It’s your home.” 

“ While you are here as my guest, this is your room. Of course I need to ask. Anything else would be inappropriate, not to mention most disrespectful.” 

Greg smiled. “‘Course you may come in,” he said. “Seriously glad of the company.” 

“Is there anything you need?” 

“Didn’t you know, I seem to have acquired a butler for that now. There’s a little button on the wall here for summoning purposes.” That elicited another smile from Mycroft who sat down on the end of the bed and regarded his guest with interest. 

“Well, you seem to be in possession of your faculties, Gregory, which leads me to believe you are over the worst. However, after last night we can’t take things too much for granted....”

"What about last night? I had the weirdest dream." 

"I came to check on you last night...well, this morning, actually, but I couldn't wake you. Frankly, I thought you were delirious. However, Dr Watson assured me everything was within acceptable parameters but we should keep an eye on you, just in case." 

"Mycroft, tell me you didn't drag John out on Christmas day? It’s a virus, that’s all. Annoying, a bit inconvenient, but not much in the grand scheme of things. All I need is paracetamol, fluids and sleep, that’s all. Honestly, there was no need to disturb anyone on Christmas Day.” 

"I think you would agree with me had you seen yourself earlier...” 

"So it wasn't a dream then?" 

"Do you recall anything?" 

"Not much, no."

"You were moaning in your sleep, and when I tried to rouse you, you did not respond. I initially called John for advice but he said if I could send a car, he would make a house call. Considering your incapacity, I'm glad he did. You had me worried for a while." 

"Worried? About me?" 

"I see you find the notion absurd..." 

"Mycroft..." 

"I suppose, all things considered, I should not find that so much of a surprise." 

"I...Mycroft, forgive me, but you're not really the demonstrative sort."

"There's nothing to forgive, Gregory. The flaw lies with me. I had hoped that you might see beneath the veneer, even a little, but..." 

"Your veneer is a bit opaque, you know. I'm a policeman, not a psychic. I can't read minds." 

"I think you will find a psychic reads the future, you require telepathy for mind reading. However the point is a little irrelevant for you are not in possession of either skill. Unless you've been hiding your light under a bushel again." 

"Again? When did I do it before?" 

"Since you proved to be such a father figure to my brother. You are a capable man, Gregory, hidden behind your own veneer of ordinariness." 

Greg was definitely not capable of processing that one. He huffed a sigh. "Sorry, Mycroft, really. I should be grateful for your care and concern. It's a bit overwhelming, if truth be known. I'm not used to being looked after like this. It's just a bloody virus." Somehow, even that protest sounded weak to his ears. 

"Well, John said I must call if your condition deteriorated..." 

“You are categorically not to go disturbing him again, do you understand me? I'll be fine.” For a split second Mycroft looked rebellious. The resemblance to his brother was so uncanny that Greg couldn’t help the grin that split his face. “God, you two are so alike sometimes, it’s scary.” 

Mycroft frowned, momentarily caught off balance. "What on earth made you say that?” Mycroft enquired. 

“For a moment there, you looked just like Sherlock. Just when he’s about to object to something I’ve suggested.” Greg grinned. “Sorry, My’, I just... sorry.” 

“No, please, do not be sorry. It’s quite alright. Sometimes I am afraid I fail to see any likeness whatever. Sherlock and I are very different people.” 

“You’re brothers. Same blood. Not so different, after all.” 

“Most people would not agree, Gregory.” 

"Ah, well, I dunno if you’d noticed but I’m not most people.” 

“Oh, yes, Gregory. If I noticed nothing else, I did notice that.” Mycroft smiled, then frowned, trying to process what he had heard. “What did you call me, just then?” 

“When?” 

“A few moments ago, when you apologized.” 

“Er...might have called you _My_...” Greg had a moment of embarrassed silence. 

“Nobody has ever contracted my name like that, not even Mummy.” Mycroft said it wonderingly and Greg didn’t know if it was because Mycroft was surprised that nobody had ever done it, or that he had never actually realised that they hadn’t before this moment. “I always wanted mummy to call me by my full name. She named me Mycroft, but insisted on calling me _Mikey_ , which I hate. I always suggested since she named me Mycroft, that she at least try to struggle to the end of it.” 

“Sorry. I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you—” 

Mycroft held up a hand to forestall further apology. “Gregory, stop apologising. It is quite alright. I am not offended.” 

“Oh, well then, that’s good... that’s fine. Won’t do it again though.” 

“I said I wasn’t offended, Gregory. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I don’t mind it, in fact I find...I quite like it, from you. Whilst it is not something I would expect you to call me, I find I am curiously pleased that you obviously feel comfortable enough to do so. However, I would appreciate it if you could restrain yourself from calling me that in public…” 

“Oh, Good God, of course not! I would never...I mean...no, I won’t call you that. When we’ve ever met before I hope you notice I always refer to you by your last name.” 

Mycroft nodded. “I admit, I had noticed. You never fail to treat me with your unique brand of humour and professionalism and for that I am profoundly grateful.” Mycroft paused, considering something. “I do not intimidate you, do I, Gregory?” This last was more of an observation rather than a question. 

“Er... no, not really. I mean, you are intimidating, downright bloody scary, actually, when you want to be, but I’m not... well, not really scared by you, if you see what I mean. I mean... Oh, God. I’m not making myself clear, am I? My head is fuzzy as hell and I can’t think straight. I mean, while you are a very intimidating and scary person, when you want to be, I am not unduly intimidated by you. If you threatened to bang me up in a deep dark cell and throw away the key for some reason, I believe that you would be able to do so but I also know that you would have a genuine reason for doing so. You tend not to be someone who just does something for no reason, or for spite, so I don’t behave as if you’d do that just because you dislike my tie or something. I’m confident I can face you and speak my mind without you reacting like a despot and having me carted off and beaten up. Does that make sense?” 

Mycroft was genuinely smiling in amusement now. “It is quite alright, Gregory. You make perfect sense to me and you are quite correct. I would have to be provided with a watertight reason to lock you away before I chose to do so. Thank you for your honesty.” 

“Good, because I don’t think I understand myself right now. I think maybe I need more sleep. Oh, thank you for the present, by the way. Inspired.” Greg smiled. 

“My pleasure, Gregory. I would agree with your assessment that you should rest now. If you want anything, Bennett showed you the call button I believe?" 

“Yes, he did.” 

“Don’t hesitate to use it then. Sleep well.” Mycroft left quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am half asleep putting this up, do please identify any mistakes and I shall seek to correct them when I am compus mentis later today. Happy Christmas Eve.


	3. Being Sick Is Overrated.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is sick of being in bed.

It was early evening when Greg surfaced again, unable to say he felt better but at least right then he felt no worse. He realized he felt somewhat abandoned though, lying in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds around him. Somewhere muted music was playing, carols and seasonal orchestral music, filling the air with a christmassy ambiance, yet here he was ill in bed. It made him feel like a child.

Tentatively he sat up, noting with relief that the world stayed steady on its axis. He risked throwing off the covers and swinging his feet to the floor, staying still until he was sure he was going to be alright. He reached for the dressing gown and tugged it on, fitting his feet into the soft slippers. He paused, considering his situation. Mycroft Holmes, powerful public servant and (on paper) a minor minister to the Crown, was in this house, having rescued the detective inspector and brought him home. It made Greg feel slightly like a bird with a damaged wing, or a neglected fox pup; something to be saved and looked after and petted and set free again once the damage had healed. Unless... _Is Mycroft really interested in me beyond the convenience of being able to effect a rescue and have me keep him company? Or was this his opportunity to make a move?_ Greg shook his head gently. _As if._ Although, considering the truths that had been recently revealed...

“Gregory? What are you doing up?” Mycroft looked surprised and concerned when Greg shuffled in the doorway.

“I was feeling lonely,” he replied, feeling like a child with a pout on. Mycroft’s expression softened and Greg was graced with another warm smile, 'laugh lines' crinkling the skin near his eyes. He patted the sofa seat beside him.

“I was about to watch television for a while. Would you care to join me?” He picked his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and examined it. “Dinner will be served in little under an hour. Would you be feeling up to eating something?”

“Actually yes, I am a bit hungry. I wouldn’t miss Christmas dinner, Mycroft,” Greg said in mock surprise that he could even hint at such a thing. Mycroft chuckled and settled back into the sofa cushions. This was a wholly different animal from the professional Iceman facade that Greg saw across the top of a black car at crime scenes. Mycroft was relaxed, despite being dressed in his customary suit even when relaxing at home.

“You’re not...expecting company, are you?” Greg just thought it would be prudent to check. Anyone Mycroft might consider friend enough to have them drop by on Christmas Day would probably not be expecting a snotty pyjama-clad old man sitting on the couch. How to feel mightily out of place, Greg thought.

“No, why?”

“Well, you’re at home, but you’ve bothered with a suit? I didn’t want to give anyone a nasty surprise…”

“Oh, I see. No, be reassured I am not expecting guests. I went out earlier, to call on my brother. Compliments of the season, and all that.”

“Like I believe that.” Mycroft sighed and Greg regretted the momentary pain that flashed across his eyes. He had not meant to cause him upset.

“I do care about him, Gregory,” Mycroft hastened to assure him. “Even as he rejects my... _concern_ , I cannot turn my back completely. He is still my brother. I have spent a lifetime caring about him, worrying that he would self-destruct before he was thirty. Now he has John, and as long as he has John he doesn’t need me.” There was a bereft look in Mycroft’s eyes then, a vulnerability that Greg wasn’t sure how to deal with. Mycroft was the consummate actor, after all. It might be for show but something pricked his senses; there was a ring of truth to the words and the wistful pain behind them. Mycroft didn't look like he was creating plausible stories.

Greg Lestrade considered himself a pretty good judge of people, it had served him well in the past, and nothing about how Mycroft was acting right now hinted at dissembling, certainly not following on as they did from earlier revelations. _Okay, we’ll run with it for now,_ he thought. _Give him the benefit of the doubt._

“Besides, there is nothing about you that would give anyone visiting me a nasty surprise, Gregory. I cannot imagine why you would think that.”

“Well, I'm ill, I’ve got a virus. I’m snotty, I look rough and I don’t feel fit to grace anybody’s couch. I’m bothered you might catch this too. Why are you not concerned that you might catch it?”

“Firstly, I believe I did remark to you that I am quite robust where colds and flu are concerned. Second, I also told you I have just had my annual flu shot. I live in hopes that it will work. Third, you are perfectly fit to grace my couch, as you so elegantly put it. In fact I may say that nothing has graced my couch of recent date more than you have, Gregory.”

“Now I know you’re lying, or deluded," Greg said.

Mycroft smiled. “I am a lot of things, Gregory, but deluded is not one of them. Nor, in this instance, am I lying. I enjoy having a distinguished, empathetic, not to mention compassionate man such as yourself gracing my home. I wish you to know that I have great respect for you, Gregory Lestrade. You are in a difficult job made all the more so by my brother and yet you rise to the challenge and bring him into your confidence and your crime scenes.” Mycroft studied him intently. “You give him purpose, Gregory, a challenge, something to keep him from inevitable destruction at his own hand. You have nothing to be ashamed about. Between you and John you have made certain with your respective skills that I am still in possession of that most enviable of commodities, a living breathing baby brother. I am in your debt, Gregory, not the other way around.” Mycroft paused a moment, seeming to collect himself. “If anything happened to Sherlock… Well, in all truth, it would quite simply break my heart. You are currently in a spot of bother and we all have those at times, therefore I am more than happy to help. Consider that I am merely chipping away at the debt that is mine.”

Greg just stared. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mycroft. After that little homily, Greg was stunned at Mycroft’s admission. “It’s…” He swallowed and tried again. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, although it sounded a little lame. “I mean...I was just doing my job, you know? Sherlock was...out of control, it's true, but there was something. I saw something in him.” Greg was finding it difficult to answer Mycroft, to sort his thoughts, then he chuckled. “He reminded me a bit of myself when I was younger, you know. Nearly off the rails and no idea what to do about it. I’ve seen countless kids in similar circumstances. The fact I nearly went wrong myself means I understand them, but Sherlock...there was something different about him, something unique... I knew he was a special one.”

“Special, yes.” Mycroft smiled and nodded. “Not many people see that though. All through school he was labelled, but never correctly; ADHD, Aspergers, Autistic...In truth I think they did not know what was unusual about him, and sought to label him in order to make him somebody else’s business. Nobody wanted the responsibility of taking him on. He has risen admirably above such labels, although he was... _damaged_ in the process I believe. Yet he proves himself to be unique every chance he gets, which does him no favours sometimes.”

Greg frowned and shook his head. “Sherlock is a genius. He’s flawed and brilliant and hard to live with but underneath, he’s basically good. One day, hopefully, he’ll show us that he can be.”

“I share your belief and hope, Gregory. In fact I could count on the fingers of one hand and still have a few left the times someone has seen that. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being one of them.”

Greg blushed at the praise for something that obviously meant so much to the man beside him and ran a distracted hand through his short hair, ruffling the salt and pepper strands. He settled back, feeling uncomfortably aware of his half-dressed status and Mycroft’s immaculate appearance. He was feeling less and less inclined to stay up as time passed; he was starting to ache again, his sinuses were stuffed and throbbing, his head was fuzzy and his eyes felt heavy and itchy.

“Think I might go back to bed, lo... er… Mycroft. I’m not... not really up to this any longer.” Uncomfortably aware that he had nearly slipped and called Mycroft _love_ , Greg decided he was too woolly-headed to risk his mouth doing... _saying, saying, do not think about doing anything with your mouth, you prat._..of saying something without his head’s approval. He stood up a bit too quickly and wobbled, grabbing the back of a chair to steady himself.

“Gregory, do take things carefully.” Mycroft rose quickly and placed a supporting hand beneath the detective inspector’s elbow and guided him to the door. “I’ll see you back to your bed. I’ll have Bennett call on you when dinner is ready, but if you do not feel up to it, then please say so.”

Greg nodded and allowed himself to be aided back to his room. It felt good to lean on Mycroft’s arm as they walked the short distance, regretting that he had pushed himself into too much, too soon. Despite his physical discomfort he was enjoying the intimacy, the pretence of Mycroft caring for him. It was something he had missed someone doing for him so very much, he was startled to realise just how much.

Once installed back in his warm bed, Greg felt much better. It was good to relax in comfort, despite his stuffed head and aching limbs.

“I shall have Bennett bring you more painkillers, you look as if you need them.”

“Thanks, but…” Greg stopped himself. He had been about to ask why Mycroft couldn’t do it himself, to keep him company, but then decided it was rather selfish of him considering they were in no way involved and barely knew each other. Instead he smiled bravely and closed his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll just get some rest.”

“You do so, Gregory.” Mycroft closed the door quietly as he left. The elder Holmes was nothing if not observant, more so in fact than his little brother. It was, however, the ability to put those details together in context and with the appropriate emotion so as to extrapolate a meaning from them that was the true skill. He had not missed the catch in Gregory’s voice, the hitch in his breathing, not to mention the near invisible tells of body language that conveyed to him that Gregory was trying to appear brave in the face of his desire to not be left alone. He had also exhibited clear signs of being comfortable with Mycroft’s help, secure enough in his presence to relax and drop his guard.

“Sir?” Bennett was waiting for him.

“Ah, Bennett. I wonder…” Mycroft stopped, considered and nodded. “It’s alright, on second thought, I shall do it. I wonder, after dinner, if you would appreciate the night off? It is Christmas, after all.”

“Sir is very kind. I shall be happy to spend a quiet evening in my suite with a mince pie and a glass of brandy, but should you require anything, you will call, won’t you, sir? If you require help with Mr Lestrade, for instance?”

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “If you insist, Bennett, although I think we can do without you for one night.”

“Very good, sir. Dinner will be served in a half hour’s time.”

“Would it be possible, Bennett, to have dinner served in Mr Lestrade’s room? I think he shouldn’t be out of bed again tonight.”

“Certainly, sir. Shall I lay a small table near his bed?” Mycroft nodded and Bennett withdrew.

“Here you are, Gregory. I decided I should be the one to fetch you your painkillers,” Mycroft announced softly, walking into the room with a barely suppressed flourish a few minutes later. He stopped and smiled. Gregory was asleep, face cuddled into the pillow, snoring slightly. He looked much younger in repose, relaxed and serene. After carefully placing the pill box on the side table, Mycroft reached to pull the covers up over Greg's exposed shoulder and could not resist resting a gentle hand on the man's arm, a comforting press of warmth designed to comfort and reassure, even in slumber. He reflected on the many times he had used such a gesture on Sherlock, not to mention countless times that had lacked the depth of meaning it now held for him. Mycroft also knew that he would never be able to do it to his Gregory without some feeling, without sentiment, behind it. Such was this man’s ability to undermine his defences and worm his way into Mycroft’s very core.

**0000000000000**

Greg woke a while later to the gentle sounds of someone moving about in his vicinity. Whoever it was managed to move quietly enough that he might have been there a while without waking the inspector, although Greg knew he was ill enough that a herd of elephants stampeding through there might not have woken him. It was Bennett. The butler had just positioned a small table near the bed and was busy laying it with a crisp white cloth, a festive table runner, a single place setting and silver cutlery. A small vase with a white winter rose and a sprig of holly was meticulously placed on one corner, and two cut-crystal glasses were positioned with military precision nearby. It looked like an intimate dinner in a high class restaurant.

“Bennett?” Greg queried. “What’s all this then?”

"Ah, good evening, sir. How does one feel tonight?”

“Actually not as bad as I thought I might,” Greg admitted. The rest had done him good. He sniffed and struggled to sit. Bennett was immediately by his side offering a supporting hand under his elbow and adjusting his pillows. Once he was settled, Bennett placed a fresh box of tissues on the bed beside him and then went back to arranging the table. “So what’s the occasion?” Greg asked again.

“Mr Mycroft wishes to dine with you, sir, but he did not think it a good idea to expect you to rise from your bed again. Therefore, he requested that I lay a table in your room, so that you could dine together without disrupting your rest. Assuming you wish to eat something tonight?”

“Not really but I suppose I should.”

“I shall see what might be done in that regard, sir. Meanwhile, Mr Mycroft suggested that Sir might care for something simple, chicken soup perhaps?”

“Thoughtful of him.”

“Mr Mycroft is nothing if not thoughtful, sir.” Bennett smiled benignly.

“Soup would be good, I guess. Thank you.”

“I am reliably informed that chicken soup has unusual restorative properties, sir. I shall return soon. Is there anything particular that you need right now, sir?”

“Not at the moment, thanks.” Bennett nodded and withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him. The next person to appear was Mycroft. The man knocked and popped his head around the door again, waiting to be invited. Greg waved him inside.

“Do you feel any better for your sojourn in bed, Gregory?”

“A bit, yeah. Still feel a bit shit though. Maybe you could call John tomorrow? Get the two of them over for drinks?” Such a thought was obviously new to Mycroft who smiled thoughtfully and nodded, considering silently.

“It would kill two birds with one stone I suppose. It would make the journey worth their while.”

“Christ, it won’t kill you to spend some quality time with your little brother, My. He’s actually not that bad. Whatever happened between you two anyway?”

Mycroft sighed and sat down at the table. “I happened. At a time when Sherlock looked on me as an enemy, rather than a friend. He needed a parent and we had none. Father died and mother...She took it very badly. She had to spend some time in hospital, and naturally it fell to me to care for Sherlock as he was still underage. I was 20, he was 13. It was either that or have him taken into care and that would have killed him. So he had to suffer me trying to parent him, which was far from successful.”

“Well, you tried. Kids don’t come with a training manual, My, and you were only 20, barely an adult yourself. At least you tried to prevent him suffering a worse fate.”

Mycroft sighed and smiled a small somewhat vulnerable smile. He opened his mouth to say more but Bennett arrived at that moment and Mycroft schooled his expression into blandness again while the man served him turkey and all the trimmings. Greg was interested to note Bennett served him a small bowl of thick chicken soup, with a side plate of much smaller portions. A single roast potato, a spoonful of mashed, a small slice of turkey, one ball of stuffing and three small carrots nestled together on a small plate; Christmas dinner in miniature. A generous glass of crisp cool fruit juice accompanied the meal. Mycroft, however, was drinking wine with his.

It was obvious to Greg that whether by Mycroft’s design, Bennett’s common sense or a combination of the two, Greg himself was benefiting from their care. He found he was touched by their thoughtfulness. Once Bennett had withdrawn again, Greg fixed Mycroft with his attention again. “So, tell me to piss off if you want, I don't want to distress you, but what on earth happened for Sherlock to hate you so much?"

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “It's water under the bridge," he said. "Past, gone. It doesn’t upset me as much now. Sherlock was nothing if not difficult. He was trying to find his own identity, and failing, miserably so. He was bullied at school, he hated it, wanted me to sign the forms to change schools. I couldn’t. I wasn’t his legal guardian. Our mother was still responsible for him even though she was ill. He didn’t understand of course. He dashed from one thing to the next, mercurial, never stopping, assimilating everything he could. He defied diagnosis of any disorder, even though the school referred him to several behavioral experts. I tried to understand, to be there for him, to contain him a little and protect the world from him, thereby protecting him from the world, but it didn’t work. He railed at the restrictions, the rules I tried to impose. I’m not saying I did the right thing, far from it. I was terrible at it, and I knew then I would be a terrible father, unable to control my own children with any degree of success, so I gave up on that future, and concentrated on Sherlock and my own studies. Mummy eventually got better and I went back to pursuing a career, but the damage was done.” Mycroft sighed and sipped his wine. Then he replaced the glass on the table carefully and stared into the middle distance, a frown pulling his brows down. “We are very close in nature, my brother and I, very close in our make-up,” Mycroft observed. “Our minds struggle to process the vast amount of sensory input the world has to throw at us sometimes. For myself, I channeled my mental faculties into politics and the problems of government; of diplomacy, of negotiation, treaties, trade agreements, bridges and links and networks. Sherlock found drugs. In a desperate bid to find clarity and focus, he found the opposite, and that, my dear Detective Inspector, is where you found him, all those years later. Found him and dragged him out, albeit metaphorically kicking and screaming..."

"Not so metaphorically sometimes," Greg interjected and Mycroft nodded, his frown somewhat pained.

"Yes, well, you gave him purpose, a reason not to self destruct, and discipline; rules he had to follow in order to achieve his goal. For that I am in your debt.”

“You’re not indebted to me, Mycroft. I did what I did because it was right, okay?” Greg was uncomfortable with the praise. “I wanted to save him, because he was worth saving. Now, you’ve managed to save me and if there was a debt, which there wasn’t, it would have been paid several times over. So there…” They completed the meal in silence, but it was at least a companionable silence. Greg finishing much faster than Mycroft but he sat quietly, sipping his juice and waiting patiently. Closing his eyes, he drifted, warm and drowsy, lulled by the warmth of the room and the calm quiet presence of his host.

“Gregory, are you alright?” The voice seemed to come from way off and Greg smiled and yawned and opened his eyes to see Mycroft standing by the bed, looking concerned.

“Wha’s matter?” he slurred, sleep fogging his brain.

“Dinner is over, everything is cleared, I wanted to make sure you were alright before I retired to bed myself. You dozed off again, but it’s quite alright,” Mycroft hastened to reassure him as Greg’s expression changed to consternation.

“Damn it all, I missed your company.”

“No need to fret, Gregory,” Mycroft said, his lips quirking up in another smile. “You need your rest. Time enough to chat when you are feeling better, if, indeed, that is what you would want? Now, go back to sleep. I have invited John and Sherlock over for tomorrow afternoon and John has agreed to give you a check up. Would you like a hot drink before you sleep?”

Greg shook his head. “No need,” he said sleepily. “Goodnight, love…” His eyes were closed and he heard the door close on Mycroft’s exit before he registered what he had said. “Shit,” he murmured to himself, before drifting off.


	4. Lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxing Day, Sherlock and John call, and there is a little problem with the weather...

When Boxing Day dawned Greg still felt snotty but the aches had mostly disappeared and he had to concede he was feeling much better; maybe not raring to leap out of bed and run a marathon but at least capable of sitting in front of the television for a while. His temperature was stable and his headache gone and he wolfed down the breakfast Bennett brought him a half hour after he had roused. Mycroft turned up, fully clad in dark gray three piece and a suitably festive tie (green with little holly sprigs), a short while later. He was obviously in a rush but made the time to give his guest apologies for his absence.

“Good morning, Gregory. I have to go out for a while. Needs must while the devil drives. There is a small crisis in the middle east but it shouldn't take long to resolve. I should be back in time for Sherlock and John’s visit later. Rest easy and feel free to use the living room as you wish. The television has on-demand available, should you wish to watch a film or sport or something. There is a computer in the study if you want to access the internet and Bennett will be at your disposal for the morning. Just ask him to assist you.”

“Thanks, My. Give ‘em Hell for disrupting your Christmas.”

Mycroft smiled. “Little hope of that, I’m afraid. They do not celebrate as we do.”

“Ah well, I hope it isn’t too taxing anyway.” Greg was careful not to mention of his slight faux pas of the night before and neither did Mycroft. “Make sure you stay safe.”

“I shall. You too.” Mycroft exited with minimal fuss and a whisper of the door as it shut behind him.

_Bugger_ … Greg realized he had actually been looking forward to some quiet conversation and getting acquainted, although the elephant in the room would have to be addressed, unless he said nothing and if Mycroft mentioned it, he could just say he’d been asleep and didn’t remember. _Unless..._ Some part of him actually wanted to discuss it, to say more than that, truth be known.

He lay in bed for a while, content to relax and let his mind drift. Eventually though he was driven to get up because he needed the loo, so he went for a long hot shower, soaking the final aches away. When he came back to the bedroom it was to find fresh clothes—soft dark tracksuit bottoms and a soft navy polo shirt—on the bed laid out for him, and a steaming cup of tea by the bedside. He smiled, unused to the service, but rapidly realising he could get used to it. He sat back on the bed and sipped his tea, then when it was finished, he went in search of the television.

\-------------------

Greg woke slowly, still warm and drowsy, although a dull light was still filtering in through the curtains, a dirty grey illumination that really should not have been awarded the title of Daylight. It looked to be early afternoon or so, confirmed by the clock on the mantle which said it was one fifteen. Memories of Christmas Day rose nicely in his mind as he lay there, chasing the gloom of the day away. It had, frankly, been one of the best Christmases Greg could recall, despite being ill. Moreover there was the promise of something more, if he played his cards right. He smiled and rolled over and came up against the flaw in his plan. He wasn’t in bed, he was on the squashy leather couch in the living room and he rolled right off and onto the floor.

“Bollocks!” he swore, as he landed on the thick pile of the rug. Not so bad a landing then, but embarrassing. He was also tangled in a rug that hadn’t been there before. _Someone's been in and found me then?_   He wondered briefly if Mycroft had returned. More likely it was Bennett. The man took his role as caretaker seriously. Greg struggled to stand just as the door opened and he covered by flapping out the blanket and folding it. John was standing there, grinning.

“You fell off, didn’t you?” He asked.

“Happy Christmas to you too, you bastard,” Greg replied. “You tell Sherlock and I’ll bloody murder you.”

John held his hands spread placatingly. “I won’t, I promise…”

“Lestrade, my dear brother tells me…” Sherlock glanced up from his phone as he strode in the door and paused at John’s back, taking in the scene in front of him. Eyes narrowed, he looked at John. “He fell off the couch?” he suggested.

“I didn’t say a word,” John defended, looking at Greg apologetically.

“It’s obvious," Sherlock declared. "You’ve only just woken up after falling asleep on the couch. Your hair is sticking up on the left side where you’ve been lying facing the television on the wall. You woke and rolled, your clothes are twisted. The natural progression of such a move is to fall off the couch.”

“Thanks for that. How to make me feel like an utter twat.”

“Sherlock…” John warned mildly.

“I am merely stating the truth…”

“One of these days you are going to learn about being tactful.”

“Tactful? Tact is lying to save someone’s feelings. It’s still lying, John. Graham has nothing to be ashamed of. He has been ill. It is quite common for someone in his condition to feel disorientated and thus fall out of bed. You have done so before and so have I…”

"It's Greg, you arse," Greg snapped just as John opened his mouth to speak.

“Enough, Sherlock," the doctor said quietly but firmly and even Sherlock got the hint and shut up.

_It was quite funny though_ , Greg thought. He chuckled and shook his head. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Not worth getting worked up about." He smoothed his hair down. "Has Mycroft got home yet?”

“Not yet. He texted me to tell me he would be slightly delayed," Sherlock said, brandishing his phone. "But where Mycroft is concerned, that could mean anything from half an hour to a fortnight."

"The Butler let us in," John explained. "I can take the time to check you over though, mate,” he said, dropping his bag on the floor by the couch. “Get your shirt off and let’s have a look at you.”

Ten minutes later John had examined Greg to his satisfaction and pronounced that nothing seemed majorly wrong, just the usual effects of a virus. “Plenty of fluids, light meals little and often, paracetamol and plenty of sleep, Greg. The usual,” he said, patting Greg’s knee reassuringly.

Greg watched him putting his stethoscope away and smiled. It was reassuring, being the focus of John's skill and care. "Thanks, by the way," Greg offered. "For coming out yesterday?" he added when John raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Oh, no problem, mate. Friend in need and all that," John said. "Besides," he added, leaning in conspiratorially, "I think Mycroft was panicking a bit."

Greg chuckled, and John joined in, but as luck would have it, Mycroft chose that moment to breeze through the door, full of apologies about middle eastern idiots interrupting the festive season. Greg and John rapidly schooled their features to seriousness, while Mycroft welcomed Sherlock and then John with complements of the season almost in the same breath. Oddly enough, Sherlock said nothing but seemed to be on his best behaviour.

Mycroft was relieved that nothing major seemed to be ailing his guest. “That is very good news. Thank you for your time, John. I am sure Gregory is reassured.”

“I am,” Greg agreed. “Thanks for that, John.”

“No trouble, I’m glad to help. Just take things easy, Greg. You should be fine by New Year.”

The next couple of hours was spent in companionable chat between them all, over drinks and snacks in the living room. It wasn’t long before Greg had to retire though. He was shattered, and said so.

“Get to bed then,” John ordered. “Get your rest.”

“Doctor’s orders, Gregory. You cannot ignore those.”

“Okay, okay, I know when I’m beaten. Goodnight, Sherlock, John. Stay safe.” He went back to his room with their good wishes echoing in his ears. He fell into bed with a sigh. So comfortable. He let his eyes drift shut, listening to the muted sounds of people around him, eventually drifting to sleep with the sound of violin music coming from somewhere.

Mycroft finally saw Sherlock and John into the car at a little after 10pm. He watched as his chauffeur manoeuvred the 4x4 away from the kerbside and out into the snowy road, letting the vehicle disappear around the street corner before closing the door. He was halfway back across the hall when the lights went out.

"Oh, bugger," he swore gently, and froze in place. He listened carefully, assessing the situation, waiting for... _yes, there it is_. There was a soft whir and a few clicks as the emergency backup generator in the basement kicked in. The lights came back on, but not as brightly. Mycroft knew that the house was now in a secure lockdown and the emergency lighting was the only thing back on line aside from the alarm system. There would be no power wasted on heating. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

"Holmes," he snapped. "Well, it's about time. What took you so long? This call should have been made the moment the electric went down…” He huffed an annoyed little sigh as he listened to the apologies and explanations on the other end of the line. “Thank you, Yes. Yes, I'm fine, but the system will need resetting... What? Don't tell me you can't send someone until tomorrow..." Mycroft sighed, dramatically. "I don't care if it happens to be Christmas. One of my guests is not well. I need the heating back online.... Very well. I will expect you to arrive then, not a moment later or heads will roll." He hit the button to terminate the call with more force than than was strictly necessary.

"Is anything wrong, sir?" Mycroft turned to see Bennett on the stairs.

"Apparently, we have a power outage at the local exchange. I am reassured that no one has attempted to breach our defences, there are no assassins at our walls, we only have our weather to blame, but although the energy company is on it, the job is still likely to take them a few hours. Anthea is on her way, but my immediate concern is Gregory. He needs to keep warm..."

"I shall put a kettle on the gas hob and make up some hot water bottles, sir. That should tide you both over. The gas is still functioning, providing I light it with a match."

"Excellent idea, Bennett. Please do that." Anthea chose that moment to text and Mycroft turned his attention to answering her request for a status update.

Greg roused in the early hours, restless and a bit uncomfortable. He moved, turning over, and came up against something unexpected; a living, breathing something that was lying beside him under the covers. Greg frowned as Mycroft's eyes opened and he stared back, watched the realization hit the man as awareness came into the blue eyes; awareness of the probability that he had done something very, very wrong. 

“Oh.”


	5. Oh!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth will out.

“Oh.”

Greg was amazed at just how much emotion one small syllable could convey. He heard regret, guilt, shame, fear and desire in the sound, watched those same emotions chase each other through the man’s eyes in a millisecond. There was also care and concern there too, almost hidden as they were by the dominating fear that he’d done the wrong thing. In the next second, Mycroft tried to back away, attempting to untangle himself from the blankets and vacate the bed. Greg shot out a hand to stop him, fingers closing on Mycroft’s arm.

Greg didn’t think, even for a moment. He simply sat up and closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s in a chaste kiss, wanting to wipe out the doubts and show the man how he felt, to thank him for everything and leave him in no doubt that Greg appreciated all of it, every thought and action, even finding him here, in his bed, like this. He felt Mycroft stiffen and freeze in shock, then begin to relax against him, giving in to the feelings coursing through his body and mind. Greg pressed his advantage, winding his arms around the man beside him, pulling him even closer. “Gregory,” Mycroft gasped, pulling away a little, stiffening up, resisting the arms that held him. Greg reluctantly let him go.

“Damn, sorry, I’m sorry. And there I was saying how I didn’t want you to catch anything…”

“What? No...please, do not concern yourself with that. I claim full responsibility. I just ….I never intended for this to…to…I should go...”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Greg soothed. “I’m sorry… Did I get the wrong idea?”

“I only intended to keep you warm," Mycroft tried to explain. "There was a power failure after you went to bed last night, and the house went into lockdown..."

"Lockdown?”

“A security measure, in case someone should try breaking in. If the electricity is compromised, the entire circuit is disrupted which results in all ingress points being sealed to prevent incursion. Shutters and the like.”

“Oh, right. Everything’s okay, though? I mean, it was just a power cut?"

"Yes, of course. Nothing more sinister than the effects of the inclement weather on a local electricity grid, that was all. Unfortunately the power company took rather longer than expected to effect repairs. I brought you hot water bottles but when I checked on you later I found that you were shivering…” He watched incredulously as the smile widened on Gregory’s face. “ I...I considered it would be best if...if we...well, shared a bed…Considering my bedroom would also be cold...”

“Then I should thank you,” Greg said.

“It was my intent to be back to my own bed before you woke…I had no desire to place either of us in a compromising situation...”

“Well, then I'm glad that you stayed. And you haven’t, not really. Well, I don’t feel compromised.”

“You don’t? You mean...you don’t mind?”

“Do I look like I mind? Why should I?”

“Because...well, you’re...were...married...to a woman…”

“Not exactly happily,” Greg replied. ”However, gender had nothing to do with it. We separated because she’d had enough of me, not because of my sexual orientation. The divorce is nearly complete so the marriage part is a bit moot too. We gave it the requisite separation first but she’s happy with her PE teacher. We tried to work it out but…” He shook his head. “She’s not coming back.” Greg couldn’t pretend he was unaffected though. He fell silent and watched Mycroft’s expression cycle through a few more emotions as the man sat there on the edge of the bed trying to process Greg’s words. “I really don’t mind you being here, Mycroft. In fact, I want you to stay.” Greg dared to reach out and lay his hand on the back of Mycroft’s hand, warm fingers gentle against his skin. He trailed his thumb across Mycroft’s knuckles, then leaned in and kissed him again, this time on the cheek.

Mycroft turned his head, one eyebrow lifted in quizzically. "Gregory...Trust me, I won't catch your flu," he insisted.

"You might. Look, Mycroft, some friend I would be if I risked your health. That wouldn’t sit well with me at all and I’m really too close as it is.”

Mycroft sighed and then nodded. “Very well, I shall bow to your judgement. However, am I correct in my assumption...would you be open to...a relationship, between us?"

Greg smiled at Mycroft’s hesitancy, even now still unsure of his ground. "If you'd like us to give it a go, Mycroft, then I'm happy to try. Might be best to...well, to leave any... _intimacies_ until I'm, you know, well enough..."

"Of course, Gregory, that should go without saying. However, that should not stop us...canoodling?”

Greg laughed. “Is that what you call it?”

Mycroft blushed and stammered an apology. "I...I am sorry, Gregory. I am sometimes a little old-fashioned in my outlook.”

“Nothing wrong in that. I sometimes prefer Mr Darcy to Mr Bond anyway.” That teased a smile out of the man sitting beside him so he raised his hand again and stroked Mycroft’s cheek, allowing his thumb to stroke across Mycroft’s lips. “Are you absolutely sure you want this too?” Greg reached out and offered an arm, and was gratified when Mycroft shifted to lie back down and settled within the circle of his embrace. He tightened his arm around Mycroft and the man laid his head on Greg’s shoulder.

“It is quite alright, Gregory,” Mycroft admitted, resting his hand on Greg’s chest. “I have admired you for a long time.”

“You have?” Greg watched Mycroft trace a random pattern with his fingertips across the t-shirt covering his chest. His touch was light, gentle.

“Of course, but you were happily married, or so I thought. I would never have done anything to damage that. You… you mean far too much to me.”

“Why? I mean...beyond my usefulness as your brother’s minder...What am I to you, really? An experiment? A teacher? I have no idea what the hell a man with your status would see in a working class lad like me.”

Mycroft scoffed, and Greg felt him tense under his arm. “First, let me address the matter of you being, as you put it, my brother's minder. That you most certainly are not. You have cared for him in the past, but he has John Watson for that now. Second, you are definitely not an experiment, Gregory! If you are willing to teach me, then I would be more than grateful. I am lacking in experience of intimate matters, and you are a compassionate dedicated man with a generous helping of integrity and humour.”

“Now you’re just embarrassing me…”

“It’s the truth. I see these things in you every time I lay eyes on you.” Mycroft’s lips quirked into an impish smile. “Not to mention the fact that you possess status as a silver fox of some note. I am not your only admirer, Gregory.”

Greg laughed. “Me? A Silver Fox?”

“Of course,” Mycroft smiled. “You have quite the following at the Yard, Gregory. Are you the only one who does not know this?”

“Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about, apart from my colleagues trying to set me up with every available female they know.” Greg frowned. _What have I missed?_ Was something going on behind his back at work? Mycroft smiled, knowingly.

“The ladies on the force are quite discerning, not to mention one or two of the men as well. They’re running a little list of their top ten who fall into the silver fox bracket. You are currently their number two.”

“Me? You’re kidding. Who happens to be number one then?”

“DCI Wetherby, I believe.”

“Bob Wetherby? Well, I’m flattered. He’s at least eight years younger than me, so I can’t be doing badly.”

“The next nearest is DI Hook…”

"He’s 48 and he’s a charmer, so no surprise there. So I’m beating Hooky, eh? Wonders will never cease. And you know all this because…”

“Why, Gregory. I make it my business to know these things.”

“Yeah, I can believe that,” Greg admitted, mouth curving in a wry grin. “It’s Anthea, isn’t it? I bet she works undercover to make sure you keep abreast of the situation... “

“Anthea is most definitely an invaluable asset to my office.”

“She certainly is,” Greg agreed. “Anyway, bet you’re the top of the list in your office.”

“Regrettably I figure on no one’s list, Gregory. I am ginger, despite a certain dark hue to my locks. I freckle, and moreover my features are rather too sharp for attractiveness. I have a rather prominent nose and my hair is receding. I am rather lacking in features that would pin me as desirable…”

“Nah, can’t believe that. I think you’re too bloody scary and they don’t want to risk your wrath by putting you on their wish lists.”

“Either I am _too scary_ , as you put it, or I am simply not attractive enough to capture anyone’s following.”

“Well, you’ve got mine.” Gregory’s cheeky smile lit his face but his meaning was sincere. _Maybe there is a God,_ Mycroft thought. At least, something was on his side; to have this... _adonis, there is no other descriptive word suitable for the perfection that is Gregory Lestrade._..in his bed, and to be in bed with him and not have him complain or run away or throw him out, and to cap it all, to have said Adonis hint at attraction? Reality had taken a sideways tilt and Mycroft had to be witnessing a parallel universe. That was the only explanation because such things did not happen to him. He did not believe in luck or coincidence; the universe was rarely so lazy. Such a one as he spent life alone, not wedded to the most perfect of partners…

“You,” Greg said, “are overthinking things. Stop it.”

“I…”

“Stop. It,” Greg repeated. “Won’t tell you again. I can see that big brain of yours busy finding reasons why nobody likes you or finds you attractive. Stop it, because you’re gorgeous. At least you are to me, and honestly, Mycroft, I don’t want anyone else finding you attractive. You think I want competition?”

 _Now I'm going deaf._ Mycroft was certain he hadn't heard correctly. The thought that Gregory found him attractive was whizzing around his brain vying for space with the thought that Gregory did not want competition where that attraction was concerned. _Exclusivity then? Oh my_ … “Gregory, would you...I mean, am I correct in thinking...you want...you…?”

“You know, I bet they’re in awe of your eloquence when you sit in on all those diplomatic talks and treaty negotiations…” “

Blast it, Gregory, I did tell you plainly that I am not au fait with relationships!” Mycroft burst out. “It is not my forte, and I am far from being well-versed in the nuances of interaction between potential mates. I have no idea how to proceed. I am floundering on the rocks of my ignorance in such matters…”

Greg smiled. There was honesty in the tirade and just a little desperation cracking the facade. “Easy, Mycroft. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tease you…” Mycroft huffed and looked a bit lost. Greg reached out again and cupped his cheek gently. “How do you want to proceed? You want us to go further?”

“I would like us to at least try, provided you wish the same.”

“Of course I do, Mycroft.”

“Then I believe we have successfully negotiated our treaty.”

“Treaty, hm? Wasn’t aware we were at war…”

“Rather more of a trade agreement, I would have thought.”

“Exchanging goods and services?” Greg chuckled and Mycroft smiled.

“If you wish, although it might be considered more of a cultural exchange.”

“Now I know you’re taking the piss. Cultured? Me? I prefer fish and chips and a pint to a swanky dinner and the opera. I’m afraid that’s not really my division.”

“Dear me, Gregory, I can see this is going to be very educational, on both our parts. You can acquaint me with your choice of _greasy spoon_ and I can introduce you to Madam Butterfly.”

“Madam who?”

“It’s an opera.”

“Right, I can see I have a lot to learn.”

“I shall enjoy being your teacher, Gregory, as much, I think, as I shall enjoy also being your student.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Tell me what after I’ve taken you for fish and chips on a Friday night in Islington.”

“Is that a date, Gregory?”

“It can be, if you want it to be. Piss poor date compared to the Savoy and the Royal Opera House though.”

“No matter, I accept.”

“Really?”

“Really. I would be with you, which would make it perfect no matter what we do.”

“Flatterer. Okay then, you’re on. So, treaty signed?”

“Signed, sealed and delivered. In my experience, such occasions are usually marked with a celebration of some kind.”

“Well, in my world we simply go down the pub for a pint.”

“That is where your world and mine differ considerably,” Mycroft observed. “I sense another cultural exchange coming on. I have not been the inside of in a public house in decades.”

“Nah, course not. That doesn’t surprise me. You poncy lot favour wine bars, don’t you? Or your club.” “

The Diogenese? Of course. One cannot find such a well-stocked bar and cellar anywhere else in London, not to mention its restaurant. That is second to none. Of course, there is also an abundance of silence. A balm for the chaos of one’s everyday existence.”

“And here’s me thinking that a good single malt was all you needed for that,” Greg deadpanned. “That or a good shag.” Despite their easy banter and close proximity, the offers of dates and intimacy, the suddenness of the suggestion caught Mycroft off guard. He had found himself entranced by the dark brown eyes gazing at him with warmth and humour. He had once scoffed at the description of eyes that danced, but here was a man who owned just such a thing, a pair of brown eyes that twinkled with such cheerful audacity...and then that statement, said without inflection, a simple stated fact, with the barest hint of mischief. To hear him plainly state his preference to... _intercourse_ … Mycroft clamped his mouth shut on a response. He would not risk being reduced to opening and shutting his mouth like a goldfish and then babbling nonsense, and he was in serious danger of doing just that. _What is it about this man that he can reduce me to mush just by opening his mouth?_ Mycroft watched as doubt crept into Gregory’s expression and he frowned.

"Sorry, Mycroft. That was crass of me..."

 _And kindly do not direct those soft brown eyes and that contrite puppy gaze on me, Gregory, that is patently not fair!_ "Please, Gregory...you are only being yourself... Oh, Damnation, no, no, no…” Mycroft stuttered. “That's not what I meant at all. I..."

"Mycroft...stop..." Greg began to laugh. Mycroft’s expression was priceless; horror at the unintended insult, warring with amusement at his own faux pas. It was music to Greg’s ears when Mycroft suddenly joined in, a surprisingly deep and spontanious belly laugh that had Greg renewing his mirth and clinging to the other man for support, despite the fact they were both still prone in bed. Had they been standing, Greg was sure they would have ended up on the floor. They subsided, eventually, gasping for breath and staring at each other from inches away. Suddenly, neither man seemed to know what to do next.

"Let's...take things...naturally," Greg suggested. "You know...let whatever is going to...develop, well, let it develop..." he waved a hand, searching for the right words.

"I believe that the phrase you are looking for is _in its own time_?" Mycroft suggested helpfully.

“That’s it exactly. In it’s own time. Couldn’t have said it better myself. I’m still not well. My stamina isn’t great...You understand? Do you mind if we...well, do what I suggested and leave intimacies until I’m properly well?”

"I am fully supportive of such," Mycroft agreed, trying not to look as relieved as he felt. "However, I think we both need to sit down and talk things through, preferably alone. I perceive issues arising from a partnership such as this that prudence suggests be talked through fully and honestly..."  

Greg grinned. "Okay, we'll talk, when and only when I'm better. I'm still a bit woolly-headed, so Prudence can sit on her suggestion for a while."

"Gregory...I was referring to the virtue, not a person..."

"And I was joking." Greg smiled as the realisation crossed Mycroft's face. "Oh, just shut up and give me a hug?" Greg watched Mycroft smile indulgently and both men wrapped their arms around the other and held tight. Eventually, content and warm, both of them drifted back to sleep for what was left of the night.


	6. Entente Cordiale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is a devious bastard and Greg speaks French.

Greg woke a few hours later coughing feeling stomach and chest muscles complain under the strain. He eventually rolled to lie on his back, out of breath and feeling exhausted, only to realise there was nobody in the bed with him. Disappointed, he stared at the ceiling and sighed heavily.

"Oh, but that was another of your careworn sighs, Gregory. Am I to understand from such a weary exhalation that you are feeling no better?" Mycroft negotiated his way through the bedroom door carrying a tray laden with what looked like breakfast paraphernalia, including a steaming tea pot. He looked... _different_ somehow. More relaxed.

For a moment, Greg toyed with saying something sappy like _better now you’re here,_ but he decided against it. Mycroft wasn’t necessarily the overly sentimental type, despite his significant sympathy and support for his guest. "Not too bad, I guess,” he replied instead, aiming for honesty as he studied his... _what?_ They were not lovers yet. _Significant other?_ That made him smile. “Just a bit worn down, that’s all. You okay?"

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you." Mycroft put the tray down on the table and turned to face him. "Would you be up to joining me in partaking of some breakfast? You should endeavor to keep your strength up."

Greg swung his feet out of bed and reached for his robe. "It all smells great, but I need the loo. Be back in a tick." Greg made quick use of the ensuite but caught sight of himself in the mirror as he washed his hands and grimaced. "God, I look bloody awful," he muttered, scrubbing his face with his hands. Several days worth of stubble scratched beneath his palms, there were dark shadows under his eyes and every wrinkle was thrown into stark relief by the bathroom light. He was badly in need of a shave and that was the least of it.

"Gregory, what on earth ails you?" Mycroft was on his feet so fast when his dear Gregory exited the bathroom he nearly tipped his chair over, but the man looked terrible; grim-faced and unsteady on his feet. “Do I need to call John? You look as if you have suffered a relapse.”

Greg felt a firm hand beneath his elbow and he found himself helped solicitously to a chair at the table. "It's okay, I'm alright. Just saw myself in the mirror, that’s all. Jesus, I look ill, My. What on earth do you see in me?"

"Is that all? Gregory, you are bound to look a little worn..."

"A little?" The incredulity was clear. “Look at me. Even I would cross the street to avoid me. I look like a tramp.”

Mycroft huffed a sigh and suppressed a wry smile. "Alright then,” he conceded. “Maybe you do look a bit more worn than I suggested, but I was trying to be polite, and encouraging. Gregory, you are still in recovery. Of course you will look less than your best yet, and bathroom mirrors are the least flattering of any reflective surface in the known world, but none of that matters. It is not a permanent change. Besides…” an elegant eyebrow arched upward, accompanied by a very uncharacteristic cheeky smile “...I think it gives you a somewhat rakish air." Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand. "When you feel up to it, I shall call my barber and he will spruce you up. He is a master of making one feel human again. Until then, pay it no mind. I do not."

“If you say so.” Greg watched as Mycroft busied himself pouring tea and serving him his breakfast. “What’s all this then? Did you give Bennett the day off?” he asked casually.

“I am quite capable of serving us breakfast, Gregory,” Mycroft said reproachfully. “Bennett is out of the house, pursuing his shopping duties, so I took it upon myself to bring you breakfast in bed. Besides, I have it on my list of achievable goals that I make you breakfast as often as I can.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Greg grinned. “Well, I am being spoiled. This is nice.” He accepted a cup of tea and sipped experimentally. _Perfect._ "Something else occurred to me, Mycroft. This is grand, really, but what about my work? I will need to return to my job sometime soon."

"Again, that is not necessarily a problem right now. I would prefer it if you took the proper amount of time to recuperate, but I do understand that your work might not be sympathetic to an extended period of sick leave, certainly not without the requisite medical forms. Now, while I can have my own doctor effect that for you, it might be simpler to have Anthea contact your DCI. Until further notice, your services can be seconded to MI6, namely to my department, about which you will not be at liberty to discuss, may I add. Official secrets and all that, so there should be no awkward questions. So, you may relax, recuperate here, and help me with my research for a week or so, then you can return to work, feed them some believable poppycock about having been consulted by MI6 concerning some anti-terrorism protocols and then carry on where you left off. How would that suit?"

Greg stared at him incredulously. “You devious bastard!” he murmured, more in respect than anything else.

“Thank you.” Mycroft acknowledged the epithet as a complement and sipped his tea. “Do I take that as an affirmative?”

"Research, hm?" Greg prompted.

"Of course, Gregory. If you want a reason, I find I am in need of an interdepartmental liaison to foster goodwill and increase the entente cordiale between MI6 and the Metropolitan Police. I will need to consult an expert to suggest how that might be encouraged." There was a wry edge to his voice which made Greg smirk.

"Foster goodwill, hm?"

"Oh yes, indeed."

“Expert, eh?”

“Of course. You have years of experience under your belt, and as such, I find you are admirably suited to the role. Your skills in diplomacy are exceptional. Your infinite patience with my brother is testament to that. I need look no further for potential candidates, Inspector. You fulfil all the requirements listed in the job description.”

“There’s a job description?”

“Most certainly. I believe it cites diplomacy as an essential requirement, not to mention exceptional negotiation skills, at least five years experience of dealing with demanding personnel and the ability to maintain an air of professional detachment when faced with a grown man throwing a temper tantrum. All of which I have seen you display at some point or another in the last few years. So, would you be interested in such a prestigious role, Gregory?”

“That has to be the weirdest job description in history.”

“An unusual role requires a unique person, I find. Besides, if I am to effect the best outcome with regard to the relations between our two departments, then I require someone with singular talent.”

" _Entente cordiale, mon cher_?”

“ _Mais oui, mon coeur,_ ” Mycroft said without missing a beat, his smile genuine. “ _Alors, allez-vous prendre l'emploi_?”

“ _Oui, mais il ya une condition_.”

“Oh? _Et qu'est-ce que ce serait_?”

“ _Tu_ ,” Greg murmured. “ _Tu est mon désir, mon bel homme_." He watched Mycroft blush and smiled. “Didn’t you guess I could speak French then? Considering I let slip that I have French ancestors?”

“Gregory, I find I am learning something new about you every day. I will never get bored with that, _mon renard argenté_.”

Greg laughed. “Did you just call me your silver fox?”

“Of course. If the cap fits…” Mycroft chuckled. “So, can I tell my superiors that you’ll take the job? Having a foreign language under one’s belt is also advantageous and it appears you have more than one. Your ability to converse fluently in _Sherlock_ is more than satisfactory under the circumstances.”

“My ability to speak that particular language is rudimentary at best but I’m finding practice makes perfect. I’ll do my very best to foster good relations, Mr Holmes. Just give me chance. Can start right now in fact.” He leaned in and snaked a hand around Mycroft’s neck, pulling him close for another kiss. Then Greg paused, pulled back and looked Mycroft in the eye. "Hang on. Superiors? Are you serious? Since when did you have superiors?"

Mycroft chuckled. “Gregory, you of all people should know I am merely a _minor_ servant of the Crown.”

Greg smiled. “I know, you have access to the Nation’s security via your laptop and Priority Ultra Clearance at Baskerville. Of course you have a _minor position_.”

“I actually do have superiors, you know. Well, I have... _colleagues_ ,” Mycroft amended. “A few whose counsel it becomes necessary to seek whenever the more difficult decisions are required. It is not prudent for the powers that be to see one person making the decisions all the time. It worries them and then they try to legislate against it. Tiresome but there you are. Otherwise, I am pretty much autonomous. However, even I have to abide by British Law. Otherwise, what is my purpose?”

“Good enough for me,” Greg said and leaned in again, savouring another—far less chaste—kiss this time. “How’s that for entente cordiale?” he asked, when he pulled back.

“We’ll make an ambassador of you yet,” Mycroft smiled.

Greg choked back a laugh. “And a Joyeux Noel to you too…I’ll be fetching out the Ferrero Rocher¹ next.”

“Ugh, I hope not. I am somewhat ambivalent where nuts in chocolate are concerned.”

“Ah, you’re a purist then?”

“Not necessarily. I simply think nuts are nice...Gregory, please!" Mycroft admonished the man, exasperated at the innuendo Greg’s cheeky grin and eyebrow wiggle suggested.

"Okay, sorry," he said, looking not one wit contrite.

"As I was about to say, I like nuts, and I adore chocolate, just not in the same confection."

"I adore Turkish delight," Greg said.”Just for the record, in case you were stuck for a romantic gift…And my middle name is Jonathan, you know, in case you were looking for baby names…”

“Baby names? Why would...oh. Gregory, are you suggesting…? Good Lord, I find that a little forward...”

“Who knows what the future might bring, Mycroft?” Greg flashed another cheeky grin.

“Isn’t it a bit early to even be joking about such things?” Mycroft asked.

“Well, everybody needs a goal in life,” Greg replied. “Oh, Goodness sake, Myc. Loosen up. I am _joking._ Nevertheless, if you don’t have some ambition you never achieve anything. Now, where were we? I believe we were exploring the entente cordiale?”

“And I was about to explore my scrambled eggs, before they turn cold,” Mycroft scolded him gently. “Come now, Gregory, eat something. We’ll have plenty of time to explore our fledgeling relationship after breakfast.” Greg grumbled something. “I beg your pardon, Gregory? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I said, _you teasing bastard!_ ”

“I aim to please,” Mycroft forked a mouthful of egg and chewed, a little primly, but his eyes told a different story. Greg could see the thinly veiled mirth beneath the surface. He laughed and shook his head, then applied himself to his food, watching Mycroft eat.

“You should get some more rest, Gregory,” Mycroft was saying. Greg realised he had been drifting again, dozing comfortably in his bed again after finishing his food.

“Wha…?” he sat forward a bit quickly and reeled, dizzy.

“Careful, my dear, don’t move too fast.”

“I know.” The reply came out a little sharply and Greg was immediately apologetic. “Damn, I’m sorry, sorry. I’m a bit...I dunno, scratchy…”

“Most convalescents are,” Mycroft said understandingly. “I perceive you have particular issues with being immobile for any significant length of time. However, while I applaud your desire to get back to work, you do need to make sure your body rests properly and takes on the correct nourishment, otherwise you will not recover as quickly as you wish to. Now take heed and rest. There is plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time for what?”

For a moment, Mycroft looked a bit confuddled, blinking like a thoughtful owl, but he rallied and smiled encouragingly and said “Anything you like, my dear. I was merely stating that there is no rush; no demands upon your time, no pressing engagements, no need to hurry over anything. That was all. You can rest and recuperate to your heart’s content.”

“Only on one condition.”

“Condition?”

“Yeah. I’ll rest on one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

“You sleep here, in my bed, with me.”

“You want me to sleep with you? What, now?”

“Yes, My. Keep me company. You just said there are no pressing engagements.”

“Well, I…”

“Please?”

 _Damn it, Gregory, you are turning those appealing eyes upon my person again!_ “Well...I dare say…I don’t suppose I would be averse...”

“Look, I did say I wasn’t up to any... _shenanigans,_ until I was better. I meant it. I promise to keep my hands to myself…”

“Well now, that’s rather a pity,” Mycroft murmured quickly.

Greg blinked, speechless for once. “Bloody Hell, Mycroft…” he said when he did find his voice. Mycroft smirked and picked up the tray. “I shall be back soon, Gregory. Rest easy until I return.” Then he was gone through the door, taking the tray back downstairs.

“Cock tease,” Greg murmured, before closing his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are UK readers you may recall a certain ad campaign for Ferrero Rocher - “You’re spoiling us, Mr Ambassador…” - or maybe you want to forget it. Whatever, that’s where this reference came from.


	7. Revelations and Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is a bit overwhelmed. 
> 
> This is reaching it's conclusion folks. A few more chapters, including New Year and First Dates, and then I think I will make a series out of it if I think of any more ideas for these two.

“Gregory, I have something you should know…” Mycroft stopped in the doorway, unable to formulate the words. They all fled his brain when he laid eyes on his detective inspector. Greg was sprawled face down across the bed, the covers having descended to his waist and perilously close to revealing parts that Mycroft would rather were not revealed just yet. The soft t-shirt had ridden up and the pajama trousers had done the opposite, revealing bare skin from mid-back down toward his hips, revealing an enticing curve of that rather attractive rear. Mycroft was having a hard time taming his thoughts concerning the man, considering his advances were, against all the odds, being returned in kind. _This is...adding insult to injury. Or rather heaping frustration on frustration. I must wait until Gregory is well again, despite his teasing words._ It was not fair to pressure the man when he was still recuperating.

Greg groaned in his sleep and rolled over, revealing an expanse of chest, along with an enticing trail of dark hair which disappeared below the sheet. _Damn the man!_ “Gregory? I have been somewhat remiss.” Mycroft carefully tugged the covers up before he could wake fully and realise. Greg grumbled something inarticulate and opened an eye but he brightened when he saw who was there.

“Mycroft? I’m sorry. Did I fall asleep again?”

“I’m sorry to wake you, Gregory. I forgot to tell you something. Anthea called to consult me on it barely a half hour ago…”

“Which would be?”

“I am entertaining guests this New Year.”

“Oh, right. New Year bash, hm? Family and friends, or colleagues?"

“Some of both, I’m afraid…”

“And you want me to piss off before the day, hm? I can understand if…”

“What? No! Of course not! I was merely wanting to forewarn you, that is all. If you would rather not attend, then I won't pressure you into agreeing but I was rather hoping you would say yes."

"Really?"

"Yes, Gregory. Really. If we are going to be together, then I expect you to take an active part in all aspects of my life. I would like nothing better than to show you off, if you will permit."

"Is that wise?"

"If you are worried about what people will say then please do not fret unnecessarily. My bosses are fully aware of my orientation, and so are my parents. I am neither pilloried nor am I disowned. I am 'out and proud' as I believe the euphemism goes."

"Well, I'm not, just so you know."

"Oh, well then, please do tell me how you want to proceed. Do you expect a negative reaction to our alliance?"

"Not exactly the point. Fact is, I don't really care what people might think because it's none of their business, but the Press would have a field day. I can just see the headlines. _Detective Inspector Turns Gay for Hatman’s Brother…_ Doesn't that bother you?"

"Hardly. My dear, what is the good of a _minor_ position in the British Government if one cannot exercise a little power now and again. Suppressing the press on delicate matters pertaining to National Security is not difficult, merely an inconvenience."

“Matters pertaining to National Security? How in Holy Hell does our relationship pertain to National Security?”

“Quite simply, I assure you. If we are in a relationship then my position in the Government is such that should anyone threaten you to get to me, then that is a matter for National Security, and I will not have it being bandied about by the tabloids that we are partners in case your safety is compromised, and thus, as a knock on effect, my safety and that of the Crown and the Nation too.”

“Well, I’ve never been a security risk before.”

“Gregory, you are not a security risk in yourself…”

“Well, sounds like if they reveal anything about me and you, I will gain that dubious status.”

“Which is why they are not going to be allowed to. Therefore your argument is irrelevant because you will not be mentioned in that context, ergo no security risk. Do not let it trouble you. I do not.”

“Yeah, but I’m not so cool headed that I’d get brain freeze by looking in the mirror, unlike someone who is referred to as the Ice Man behind his back.”

“A regrettable epithet but one which is quite apt, nevertheless. I do endeavour to remain cool in adversity.”

“And yet, you go all _dithery_ when someone suggests you should sleep with them.”

Mycroft sighed softly. “Gregory, I do not _dither._ However, I will admit to a measure of uncertainty when dealing with your request. I...I should admit…” Mycroft fell silent as if not sure what to say.

“Admit what, love?” Greg prompted. “Seems to be the day for confessions.”

“I am...I have never...actually _done_ anything...before, with a man...With anyone, actually.” He watched Gregory as he processed that statement, and cringed inwardly. Gregory would think him inexperienced, gauche even, where matters of the bedroom were concerned. Maybe that would put the final nail in the coffin of their attempt to become companions.

“I have been told I’m a good teacher.”

Mycroft turned to look at the impossible man, sitting there in the bed, so accepting of his shortcomings. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Mind? Are you daft?” Greg lowered his voice. “Are you telling me you’re a virgin, Mycroft? Really?”

Stiffly, Mycroft nodded. “I have never actually engaged in intercourse, so yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then I’m honoured.” There was gravitas in the reply, the soft voice deep with emotion.

“You’re what?”

“Honoured, Mycroft.” Greg repeated and reached to take Mycroft’s elegant long-fingered hands in his and held them gently. “I feel honoured that you would trust me to be your first.”

Mycroft looked down to where the big warm hands engulfed his own, and he found himself speechless. Gregory’s acceptance took his breath away. Moreover, the man wasn’t just accepting but actually proud that Mycroft had placed his trust in him. Proud and pleased.

“Just say the word, My. We go at your pace, when you are ready, not just when I’m well again. If you aren’t ready by then, I expect you to say so. Is that clear?”

“I...yes, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, meek in the face of such concern. Nobody had ever treated him this way. Nobody had ever seen fit to place his needs above theirs. It was a wonder and no mistake. Gregory was smiling at him, that patient, slightly-exasperated smile that Mycroft had often seen directed at his brother.

“There you go again, using that big brain of yours and coming up with _something_ …” Greg’s eyes narrowed. “I would say you were probably wondering why someone can feel like this about you…”

“Very good, Inspector. Not quite right, but not far off the mark.”

“What did I not get right?”

“Your choice of wording is interesting.”

“Stop avoiding the subject.”

“Oh, I shall get to the subject, eventually, but I am interested to note, where my brother would have said ‘what did I get wrong?’ you ask ‘what did I not get right’. While on the surface the two statements ostensibly mean the same thing, your choice of wording is the more positive. I wonder what that says about you?”

“Might have more to say about your brother.”

“Oh?”

“He’s more used to getting it right. When he does get something wrong, he’s inclined to be a touch more negative about it. How’s that for a deduction?”

“Informative, Gregory. Now, as to your question, the answer is simple. People do not usually put my needs before theirs, as you just did. I simply took some time to assimilate how it felt, that was all. It is, I find, quite a novel experience, following as it did close upon the heels of your revelation that you are honoured to be my first lover, rather than repulsed by my lack of experience. I am, I confess, rather overwhelmed.” And there was another blinding smile from the man who was surprising him greatly today.

“If you need some time alone…” Greg suggested, seeing the look in Mycroft's eyes and judging it correctly. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll miss your company, My, but I do understand. I’m fully in agreement with being seconded to your department for a few days, whatever it does. About time I started looking after myself a bit. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth after all, so we’ll have plenty of time if you want some time to think things through now. As long as you don’t go all negative on me and start thinking you don’t deserve to be happy. You mustn’t do that.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to smile at the vehemence in Gregory’s tone. “Then I shall promise I will not consider that avenue, Gregory. However, you are correct. I would like to perhaps order my thoughts for a while. I do have a few phone calls to make. I need to bring Anthea up to speed and allow her to contact your superiors. I also need to check my emails and make sure there is nothing pressing to stop me enjoying the rest of my...of _our_ day. I should call my barber too, book him to visit us and spruce us both up for New Year. We also need to decide what to wear...”

“Jesus, nothing is simple for you, is it? You work too hard, even when you're off duty. Come here and kiss me, then I can let you go.”

“Certainly, Gregory. I can do that much at least.” Mycroft bent and kissed his Gregory with as much tenderness as he could muster. “I appreciate your concern, and I shall see you later.”

“Get gone, love,” Greg insisted, watching the man head reluctantly for the door. After the door closed behind Mycroft, Greg let another sigh loose and relaxed back against the pillows. _Bloody Hell, this is going to be a ride and a half,_ he thought, wondering at Mycroft’s revelations and reactions. Somehow, though, he felt he was going to love every damn minute. Even the inevitable ups and downs. This was Mycroft Holmes he had chosen, the Ice Man himself. Who was thawing nicely, it seemed. _Hang onto your hat, Greggy-boy,_ he thought. _I've got a feeling you ain’t seen nothing yet!_


	8. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, but it also makes it worry a lot as well...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is called back to work. Greg is bored. If this is going to be their life, then he can't say he doesn't understand. This is a short one, and an apology it's been so long.

The following morning dawned wet, grey and dismal, unseasonably mild and somewhat depressing. Greg lay in bed wondering whether to get up or stay warmly ensconced in his snug nest. The nest won. He dozed, enjoying the rare luxury of being unhurried, of not needing to rush off to work. The house was quiet, the muted morning sounds of cars outside a soft background murmur. Then he remembered it was Sunday and bound to be less busy than a weekday anyway. Somebody looked in on him at some point but withdrew without comment, and whoever it was had gone by the time Greg registered the sound of the door closing and opened his eyes.

He was alone again. Whether Mycroft had spent the night in his bed or not he couldn't remember but he would have thought not, considering recent events. He missed the man's presence, his vitality, because Mycroft Holmes was a vital man, radiating personal power and confidence on a grand scale. His vulnerable moments did not make him less in that regard. More so, in some ways, because it gave him more layers to his character, made him more three dimensional, more _human_. Greg also knew that it was playing with fire to enter into any kind of relationship with the man everyone called the Iceman. _If things don't work out between us, the fallout might be somewhat spectacular. No earthly point thinking like that though._ Greg wanted to remain optimistic.

The next time the door opened it was Bennett with a tea tray, disappointingly set for only one person. "Mr. Holmes sends his regrets, sir, but he's been called into work again. Something about a small crisis in North Korea. I regret to say he was not optimistic of a quick resolution... How is sir feeling today?"

"Sir is not feeling too bad, actually, Mr. Bennett, thank you." Greg watched Bennett serve him his tea. “Does he do this a lot?”

“To what would Sir be referring? Mr. Mycroft’s absence?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

Bennett smiled. “He does spend a lot of time at work, but with good reason, sir. Mr. Mycroft works hard and long, but I am confident he does so for the very best of reasons. He has left instruction that I am not to let you leave the premises until he returns, and to tell you that you are more than welcome to treat the place as your own. Moreover he has given me to understand that I am to treat your good self as I would treat him, sir. I am at your disposal for the duration of your stay.”

“That’s kind of him.”

“May I speak freely, sir?”

“You’re not in the army, Mr. Bennett, nor am I your employer. Feel free.”

“Mr. Mycroft speaks very highly of you, sir. Furthermore, he has never, to my knowledge, allowed anybody else the same liberties as he allows you.”

“Liberties?”

“Yes, sir. The hospitality of his home, for one. He rarely has anyone stay here, apart from his younger brother, when the lad needed somewhere safe to stay. On those rare occasions when he has allowed it, he has never had anyone to stay past a single night, and never spends the night with them, if you understand my meaning.”

“I think I do.”

“Mr. Mycroft both likes and trusts you, Inspector, and that is a very rare thing. I hope you understand that, sir. Mr. Mycroft values you greatly, it is plain to see.”

“That is...flattering, Mr. Bennett.”

“It is not my place to say, sir, but... _please_...I beg of you not to break that trust, sir. Forgive my forthrightness but Mr. Mycroft deserves some happiness in his life, and you seem to be the one he has chosen to try to find that happiness with. I do hope, sir, that you both find that together.”

Greg smiled. “I hope so too, so don’t fret yourself, Mr. Bennett. I do understand what’s at stake here and I promise you, I’ll be careful with him.”

“Thank you, sir. If that is all…”

“Yes, of course.” Greg watched the man open the door but then called him back before he withdrew.

"Yes, sir?"

"Mr. Bennett, would you perhaps know Mr. Holmes' preferences where... _certain things_ are concerned?"

"What exactly did sir have in mind?"

"I wanted to get him a present, because he was generous enough to give me something at Christmas. I just wondered if you might have some idea of something appropriate. However, I'm not a beggar but my funds are nothing like Mr. Holmes'."

Bennett pondered for a moment. "I think I may be able to suggest the very thing, sir," he said after a short silence. The thing Bennett suggested made Greg smile. “That’s perfect, but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go shopping…specially if you’re under orders not to allow me to leave.” Bennett smiled. “If you will allow me, sir, I shall be happy to do so on your behalf at my earliest opportunity.”

“Kind of you, Bennett.”

“Not at all, sir.”

When Mycroft still had not returned that night, Greg began to worry. He asked Bennett but the man smiled and told him that Mycroft’s behavior and lengthy absence was in no way unusual. “I shall send a message to his assistant. I often ask for an update, and she will let me know how things are. Do not worry unduly, Inspector.” True to his word, Bennett appeared a few minutes later with a full tea tray and the message that everything was alright, Mr. Holmes was alive and well, but the situation warranted his complete concentration and he would most likely not be home that night, possibly not for the next couple of days.

“And this is usual?”

“I am afraid so, sir. If I may be frank again?”

“Go ahead. I have a nasty feeling you’re going to tell me something I am not going to like.”

“If you and Mr. Mycroft are serious about your relationship, sir, then I should warn you that you will need to prepare yourself for this kind of behavior on a regular basis. I suspect someone in your line of work would be sympathetic to his situation though?”

“Oh yes, I am,” Greg replied ruefully. “I understand all too well. However, I also understand how much it takes out of you. I hope he understands that I will insist on caring for him if he comes home knackered, whether he wants me to or not.”

“I believe he will agree to such, sir, even if he protests the opposite. It is too long since Mr. Mycroft had anyone to care for him.”

“He has you and his staff, doesn’t he?”

“Of course, sir, but...I very much doubt he would allow us to care for him in quite the same way as you will.”

Greg chuckled. “Point taken. Well, I’d better be a good lad and hit the sack early. If he calls…?”

“I will inform you as soon as I know any more, sir. Rest assured.”

**0o0o0o0o0o0**

Nothing changed the day after. Greg was left kicking his heels and ‘resting’ again, alternatively watching the television and checking his emails, ending up watching football matches on one of the on-demand services. Bennett served him his meals, but he was left alone to enjoy the comfort of Mycroft’s home. Alone. He finally went to bed, both bored and unhappy. He could but hope Mycroft managed to resolve the problem quickly. 


	9. Home Is Where The Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The free world is once again safe, and Mycroft returns home.
> 
> Okay, so I said the last one would be short. My bad. I wanted Mycroft home before I went to bed. Apologies for any anomalies. It's 2am where I am.

Sixty hours after he had stepped out of his residence, the front door finally opened to let Mycroft back into his home, but Greg was shocked at his appearance. The man looked exhausted. He was full of apologies for the inconvenience of foreign powers flexing their egos, and taking up his valuable time.

"Gregory, my dear, how are you? Has Bennett being taking care of you?"

"Of course he has. More than his life is worth not to." Bennett smiled and withdrew with Mycroft’s coat over his arm, leaving the two men alone. “But how are you, love? You look like...well, death warmed up, actually. What on earth happened?”

“Alas, I am not at liberty to discuss the details, but…” Mycroft sighed dramatically. “Crisis averted for now. I am at liberty to rest.”

“Then rest you shall, love. Here with me. Right now. Come here.”

“Gregory, there is no need to fuss. I am fine.”

“You will be,” Greg agreed. “After you’ve rested.”

“I require tea, some peace and quiet to still my mind, and then I shall retire. Not until then, my dear. It is a process I am familiar with, rest assured.” Mycroft sat on the bed beside him. "So, how are you?" he asked.

"Not too bad really. You, on the other hand, look like shit.”

“Thank you for such an eloquent assessment, Gregory. I am actually tolerably well, given the circumstances and the dismal weather. Do you feel like getting up? We could have tea in the conservatory, before I collapse into bed and sleep the rest of the day away. The conservatory is heated at this time of year. I grow orchids, you see."

"Conservatory? You have a conservatory?"

"And a modest garden as well. Have you not had opportunity to see the house? I did leave Bennett with instruction that you should treat the place as you would your own..."

“Oh, he told me, yes, but this is your place, Mycroft. I didn’t want to go poking my nose everywhere without you there.”

“I appreciate your respect, Gregory. So...how about a tour then?” Mycroft’s enthusiasm was infectious and belied his tiredness. He suddenly had the air of an eager pup.

"Later, Mycroft. Only when you’ve had a decent sleep, love. I’ll agree to the tea though. You might have to help me, a bit." Greg swung his legs out of bed and sat up with a soft groan. "Oh, I’m still aching."

"Take things steady, Gregory," Mycroft said gently, offering a hand to help him stand up. "Slowly now, otherwise you may experience dizziness. I believe John would call it postural hypertension. There, that's it."

Greg stood, hung on to Mycroft until the world settled and then made his way to the bathroom. When he emerged, freshly washed, ten minutes later, it was to find Mycroft sitting in a chair reading the morning paper; elegant legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, jacket unbuttoned. Greg briefly allowed himself to imagine liberating those long feet from shoes and socks and giving the man a foot massage. Maybe he would soon. He needed to encourage things to move on a little.

"Gregory, are you quite alright?"

"What? Yes, yes of course. I'll just throw on some clothes..." He hunted out the soft tracksuit trousers and polo shirt, noting that Mycroft averted his eyes as he dressed. He shoved his feet into the slippers and turned to his host. "Ready when you are."

The house really was lovely. It was a classic mid-Victorian London townhouse; Mycroft told him that there were plenty of large bedrooms, a drawing room leading off a spacious dining room, and even a small ballroom, with mirrored walls, gilded like something out of an historical novel. They would be using that for the New Year party. Greg had experienced the comfort of the living room, and apparently the kitchen complex was below stairs, along with Bennett’s office. The conservatory was attached to the back of the house with a garden leading away to a clump of well-established trees. Greg had no difficulty imagining a summer garden party held in its splendor. "It's beautiful, My, really gorgeous. What a place you have here."

"Modest by some standards, I can assure you. However, I like it. It meets my current needs more than adequately."

"Well, it's a really beauty. I'm impressed."

Mycroft smiled and lead the way to the conservatory. Orchids nodded their lovely heads against a backdrop of ferns and other foliage plants. The temperature in there was pleasantly warm and they sat in comfort on cushioned basket-woven chairs for a very civilized and traditional cream tea. However, although there was plenty of tea, cucumber sandwiches and fruit scones with jam, Mycroft apologized for the lack of cream. “It plays havoc with my diet.”

“Mycroft, why do you....? Nope, sorry, none of my business really. I’ll shut up.”

“Gregory, what were you about to ask? Please, I don’t mind.”

“Your diet, that’s all. Why, apart from Sherlock taunting you, do you feel you need to diet? I mean, you don’t listen to that daft git, do you?”

“Sherlock has always taunted me about my weight. I admit I was rather chubby when I was in my teens. I had a hard time losing weight, and I was very conscious of it.”

“Were you bullied?”

“Yes, frequently. However, I knew I should lose weight to be fit and healthy. I am not now and never have been naive about that, but disappointingly I am afraid it is a constant battle.”

“Because, just so you know, you look very...well, _fit_ right now, and I would hate for you to feel you didn’t look good, because you do…”

Mycroft looked at him, half a scone poised in midair, curiosity etched in his expression. “I do...I mean, I do?”

“Yes, you do. Look at you; slim, tall, elegant. Just gorgeous, Mycroft, gorgeous…”

“Well, I...I hardly know what to say.” He put the scone down, lest he risk choking on crumbs. His mouth had gone suddenly dry so he reached for his teacup.

“Don’t say anything more,” Greg said. “Just let me look.”

“Let you…? Gregory, what on earth…?”

“You’re worth looking at, Mycroft Holmes.”

“I am?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then...look all you like.”

“That had a ring of finality to it,” Greg suggested. “You know, look all you like but don’t touch?”

“Ah, I see. No, the inference was purely accidental.”

“That’s good because….” Greg leaned in closer.

“Because?”

“Because if I touch you, I have no idea what might happen, that’s all. Mycroft, enough beating about the bush. I am really attracted to you, and I want to...you know…”

“You want to what, Gregory?”

“Get to know you better. Much, _much_ better.” That made the British Government quite breathless it seemed. Greg dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “Much, much better. I know we’ve kissed, and we’ve slept in the same bed, but I think it’s about time things went a little...further. In fact, when I’m done, I want to be able to say I know you inside…” Greg let his lips brush the shell of Mycroft’s ear, “...as well as out.” He drew back a little, and kissed Mycroft gently on the lips. It was a soft kiss, with the promise of a whole lot more.

Mycroft felt the situation running away with him. Greg was taking charge, subtly easing him into taking things to a new level. Not that he did not trust the silver-haired Inspector to keep him safe, and teach him what to do, but he did not readily trust anyone. It was ironic that his first meeting with John Watson had revealed the man’s trust issues. If John had known, then he would no doubt have said it was a case of kettle calling pan black. Mycroft found trust was a very hard won but frighteningly easy thing to lose. He submitted to the kisses and caresses but he was wary, and he resisted going further in such a spontaneous way.

Eventually, Greg cottoned on and stopped necking to gaze into Mycroft’s eyes. “Okay, spill. What’s the matter? Talk to me, love. I can’t mind-read.” 

“I’m sorry...I...This is _difficult._ I find the spontaneity is...out of my control and therefore out of my comfort zone. Oh, I know it negates the impromptu nature of our encounter, but I am...uncomfortable, and as a result, I am not... _turned on_ , as you might say.” 

Greg chuckled. “That’s okay, love. You’re knackered too. Hardly a good combo. So, apart from sixteen hours sleep, what would make you more comfy?” 

“Maybe if this were more...planned? If we were going to bed, for instance. If we...well, made a date, as it were. If I knew to expect it… that might help.” 

“I see. Too early for being off the cuff?” 

“Somewhat.” Mycroft paused. “You understand.” Yet again the man surprised him. 

“Yes, I do. Really. I don’t want to push you into anything you are not ready for. So, come on then. Let’s make a plan right now. Bed?” 

“It’s the middle of the day…” 

“And you are knackered. This is also a day that is under our... _your_ control. So you can go to bed any time you goddamn please. You are Mycroft Holmes, and if you want to go to bed, is there anybody to tell you that you can’t? No, there isn’t.” 

“Put like that… “ 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

“So, what then? Shall we?” 

Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out in a slow controlled way before he spoke. “Very well then. Lay on, McDuff, and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold! Enough!’.”


	10. At Last.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Probably what you've been waiting for, but not necessarily.

Greg roused from a very sound, very comfortable sleep. It was dark, and he was warm, and he was reluctant to relinquish unconsciousness. The bedside clock said 4.15pm. He smiled. _Well, that had been...satisfying_. He rolled over, admiring Mycroft's slumbering form lying beside him. He spooned against the man’s back, tucked one arm around him, and pressed close enough that the other man could not ignore the hard length pressed against his bum. Mycroft murmured appreciatively and pushed back against his lover, encouraging the contact. A shiver traveled the length of Greg’s spine, pooling rather deliciously somewhere south. He traced the freckles across Mycroft’s shoulders with a gentle finger, joining the dots, chuckling as Mycroft squirmed.

“Ticklish?” he inquired.

“Gregory, you abominable tease...Stop it!” Mycroft rolled to face him, a forbidding frown on his face, but Gregory smiled and he couldn’t keep up the pretense of being angry. Instead Mycroft shifted, straddling Greg’s body and pinning him to the bed with strong hands around his wrists, forcing his arms above his head.

“Ooo, forceful!” Greg grinned at him, watching Mycroft’s eyes turn dark with desire. “Taking command there, love?”

“I find it necessary on occasion.”

Greg shivered again and grinned back, anticipation making him twitch. Having Mycroft in such a dominant position was a pleasant surprise. He glanced down, admiring the long legs straddling his hips, and the obvious erection, long and slim to match the man himself. Greg twisted one hand free and reached up, sliding it around Mycroft’s neck and drawing him down for a kiss that left them both breathless and wanting more. He rolled them over then, until Mycroft was on his back stretched out beneath him to admire and caress. He ran gentle fingers over creamy skin, tracing the soft almost-invisible chest hair, letting his thumb caress each nipple and tease it to hardness. Greg moved into a better position to swipe his tongue where his thumb had been, hearing Mycroft’s gasp and soft breathy moans at the touch. He lifted himself up again, positioning his body carefully, aligning their cocks to rub together. The slow roll of his hips was both sensuous and gentle, and Mycroft climaxed rather quickly, with a soft moan, head thrown back on the pillow, face flushed and eyes full of surprise and amazement. He was immediately embarrassed at his lack of stamina.

“Not to worry, love,” Greg reassured. “Doesn’t matter. It’s to be expected anyway, if it’s been a while.”

“But...what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You haven’t…”

“I know, but I don’t have to…”

“Lie still.” It was Mycroft’s turn to take control. Greg watched him position himself further down the bed. “I may not have had proper intercourse with a man before but I was told a long time ago that I was particularly good at this,” Mycroft said, a touch of pride in his voice as he bent to his task. “Time to see if I still have it.” The warm wet pressure of Mycroft’s mouth on his cock as his lover swallowed him down was almost more than Greg could bear.

“Oh, Christ, you…” Greg gasped. “Bloody hell, you really are…”

Mycroft smirked and swirled his tongue, eliciting another series of obscene sounds. It wasn’t long before Greg’s back arched and he shuddered through a more intense orgasm than he’d had in ages. He relaxed bonelessly back onto the bed with a satisfied grin.

“That was…. amazing, love. You see, you’re not the only one with a lack of stamina” He nuzzled sleepily against Mycroft’s neck and inhaled. “God, I love how you smell. So good…”

“Oh, Gregory…” The whisper against his skin was almost reverent.

“Shh, let’s get some more sleep.” Greg yawned. “Plenty of time for more later.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Hello, love. You okay?”

“More than merely okay, my dear.”

“I don’t want to get up.”

“Neither do I, but I am certain I should check in with Anthea and possibly eat something. We did expend a little energy after all.”

“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?” Greg gave him a suggestive grin and nudged him with an elbow. “I think I burned off the remains of my fever…”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and smiled indulgently. His Gregory was as lusty a lover as he’d always imagined, and Mycroft had a very good imagination. “Thank you, Gregory. I find it difficult to trust, as you know. I...I could never have hoped for better.” Greg beamed another smile that lit the room never mind his own face. Mycroft’s heart lifted and he smiled at the sight. “What now though, Gregory? Do we have more ahead than just this encounter? I mean...are we compatible enough to wish for more?”

“Time will tell on that score, My. Let’s say I feel pretty positive right now.” Greg rolled onto his back and stretched with a groan. “Oh, I ache… but in a good way.”

“I think I may be able to help there. Face down please.”

Greg raised an eyebrow but complied with the polite request. He heard the bedside drawer pull open and heard the pop of a bottle cap. The next moment he felt those long-fingered hands kneading his shoulder muscles. He let out a moan that sounded rather obscene and buried his head in the pillow. Mycroft continued to smooth and knead his sore muscles, his hands oiled with something sweet-smelling.

“Almond oil, with cinnamon, ginger and chamomile,” Mycroft replied to the question. “I find it is efficacious for easing sore muscles. I have it made specially for me.”

“Oh? And when do you get sore muscles? You been holding out on me, Mycroft?”

“Not at all. I ride, but I tend to get a little sore when I haven’t been in the saddle for a while…”

“You ride? As in horses?”

“Yes, gregory. I ride horses.”

“Bloody hell, Mycroft. Just the thought of you in riding gear....”

“Getting you all hot under the collar again, Inspector?”

“Well, yeah. What d’you expect?”

Mycroft smiled. “It is a common enough fantasy I suppose. Horses, motorcycles…”

“Have to admit that’s more my style...”

“It is? Would you happen to own such a machine?”

“Of course, but I rarely get to take her out. Kawasaki Ninja. She’s an old lady now, but she still goes. I don’t get as much time on her as I want.”

Well, that effectively derailed Mycroft's thoughts. “Similarly, my dear, the thought of you in biking leathers is probably doing the same for me as the thought of myself in riding gear is doing for you.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll have to wait a bit for that though. This time of year isn’t fantastic for riding anything…”

“We shall make a New Year resolution, Gregory.”

“We will?”

“Yes, we will. At the first opportunity that this year gives us, we shall share our respective fetishes for riding gear.”

Greg laughed appreciatively. “Okay, okay, first chance we get...Hey, why wait for good weather? We could simply get dressed up. After all, we don’t need to actually go riding. I mean, what we’ll want to do to each other as a result is something for the bedroom anyway.”

“Point taken, Gregory. I suppose I shall have to brush off my jodhpurs then.”

“Well, only a couple of days to New Year. You could make your New Year do into a fancy dress party... What?" Mycroft's expression had turned to one of horror.

“Oh, my God, the reception!" he said, looking mortified. “That foreign business took me away from my preparations. I can only hope that Anthea has carried on where I left off...”

“Well, don’t worry. I’m sure there’s still time…”

“Gregory, these events need planning and I am only half-done. The invitations have gone out but.... You need something to wear. My tailor cannot run up a suit at such short notice, at least not one worth wearing. We shall have to go shopping on the high street. And I promised you a session with my barber. Are you up to leaving the house?”

“God, yes. I’ve been cooped up too long anyway.”

“Good, then tomorrow we shall venture out to get you something that will turn heads. Fear not, Cinderella shall go to the ball!”

“Just watch it, Myc. I’m not going to wear a ball gown for anybody!”


	11. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft go shopping.

New Year’s Eve dawned wet and grey yet again, but Greg couldn’t care less. He was going shopping with Mycroft. There were the final few steps that Mycroft wanted to implement to make his New Year preparations complete and he was insisting on purchasing new clothes for Greg a well. Thankfully, Anthea and Bennett between them had taken up the reins and had most of the rest of the event under control, so all that was left for Mycroft to do was to add his own personal touches to the evening.

Greg had always trailed reluctantly after his wife on shopping trips, carrying the bags and wishing he was in front of the telly watching the Saturday afternoon match and downing a couple of beers with his mates. She had never involved him in the process, really. He was just there as a pack horse. She would ask his opinion and he was always careful about giving it, not least because an honest answer always got him into some kind of trouble. Despite his diplomatic answers to the classic “Does my bum look big in this?” she would never believe that he was telling the truth whatever he said. And in truth, her bum had been one of her best features.

Truth was, he couldn’t win with her. So it was with some trepidation that he waited for Mycroft in the hall. His coat had been dry cleaned but it wasn’t the best of things to face the weather in at this time of year. At least his shoes were now dry, but he knew they leaked.

“Gregory, are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

The sound of his lover’s voice was anything but positive. “Oh? Are you not feeling well enough?”

“I’m not really dressed for this…”

“Then that is something we must make a priority. I shall remedy your lack as soon as humanly possible....”

“Mycroft, no. I can’t have you spending money on me like that.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because. Look, I have my pride, you know. I feel like I’m taking advantage.”

“Gregory, please. It would give me the greatest of pleasure to do this for you. Honestly. You need better clothes, my dear. It is in your interests to dress warmly, to maintain your health. Let me do this for you?”

“You know, you’ve perfected the puppy look, haven’t you? Do you turn that on Anthea when you want her to do stuff for you?”

“God forbid, Gregory. Anthea would never allow me to do so anyway. She is impervious.”

“Good for her, but I’m not, just so you know.”

“Excellent. Here we go then.” He lead the way to the car.

A man slid into the front seat beside the driver, a man Greg hadn’t yet met.

“Norman,” Mycroft said, by way of introduction. “I am afraid he is a necessary evil. Another of my minders as you like to refer to them.”

“Ah. Okay. As long as he’s legit.”

“Oh, there is no need to worry there. I can assure you, he’s very _legit._ One of my best close protection agents, for that matter. He’ll keep his distance, and he isn’t here to carry our bags, but he is here in case we have urgent need of help, whatever form that might take.”

“What, you mean, bodyguard help?”

“Precisely, Gregory.”

“Norman, hm?” Greg eyed the man, sitting impassively in the passenger seat. In a nutshell, he was big; Broad and heavily muscled, the kind of man who really looks uncomfortable in a suit, as though it isn’t cut properly for him. He actually looked like the sort of man who should be wearing a WWF belt and screaming obscenities at the audience. This was going to take some getting used to.

They traveled through the early morning traffic in comfort, and Greg decided to try quizzing Mycroft on his guest list for the party.

“So just who is coming tomorrow night, Myc?” Greg asked, trying to engage him in revealing the details. Greg tried to convince himself he just wanted to be prepared, but in truth he was nervous of being presented to Mycroft’s friends and family.

Mycroft smiled. “My inner circle,” he replied enigmatically.

“Seriously, you have an inner circle?”

“Of course. This is no mere diplomatic event, Gregory. This is my...this is far more intimate. I only invite those people I have the highest regard for, I suppose you could say.”

“You said family and friends, as well as what, diplomats?”

“A few, yes. Prince Ahmed Ibn Ibrahim Ibn Mustafa will be there…”

“An actual prince?”

“Yes, Gregory, an actual prince. He is a dear friend and someone I have known since university. He has saved my skin on more than one occasion, believe me. My parents will also be there, in fact you can meet them tonight…”

"Hell, My. I’m going to meet your folks? Really?”

“Yes, really. They always come up for New Year. They stay with me for the duration.”

"Hang on, I thought you said your dad died when you were younger...?"

Mycroft smiled. "My birth father did, yes. Our mother remarried fifteen years ago, found a rather nice man who dotes on her. Peter puts up with her eccentricities admirably. He's rather like John in a way; patient, practical, pragmatic. No matter our ages, he has always acted like a real father to both Sherlock and myself, as much as we let him of course. I do think of him as my father, despite the fact that he did not bring us into the world. He looks after mummy and I cannot fault him for that."

“Sounds like a good man. So, do you invite Sherlock too? And John?”

“I have invited them but they do not always come. Sometimes, Sherlock’s mood doesn’t let him…”

“Damn him. Mycroft, you know your brother can be an arse sometimes.”

“I know, but I understand him, where not many do. They think he spurns me, and yet, honestly, I think he simply cannot bear to be around too many people for too long. He is a solitary person, which is why John is such a surprise. That he has let another into his life at all is a miracle.”

“Yeah, well, he has issues but he’s still your brother.” Mycroft smiled and nodded. “So then,” Greg added, “is this a very big _do_?”

“Not a such, twenty two this year I believe.”

“Twenty two? Jesus, that’s massive.”

Mycroft smiled again. “Not at all, not when you are used to hundreds at most of the _do’s_ I attend.”

“My family parties amounted to about ten tops, and that was a good day.”

“Well, this is one occasion when Anthea gets to let her hair down, as they say.”

“So she gets to go to at least one party then, and not on duty?”

“Not on duty, no. It’s the least I can do to reward her diligence and loyalty.”

“Nice. That’s a nice thing to do.” Greg’s approval washed over Mycroft in a most unexpected and pleasant way. Not that Mycroft had ever needed anybody’s approval but finding he had Gregory’s was...very nice. He smiled at the realisation and continued,

“Charles will be there.”

“Prince Charles?”

“Heavens, no. Charles Graham, the actor.”

“Bloody Hell, Myc. Charles Graham? Really? He’s actually probably more famous than Prince Charles.”

“Yes, really. We were also at university together. Cambridge fringe and all that. He got a part in A Touch Of Frost and went from strength to strength, thank God. He was always better than a mere support actor. Ended up in the RSC for a while. Next thing you know, he’s in Game of Thrones, even if he didn’t last more than a few episodes. Nobody seems to in that series.”

“I do know who he is, Mycroft. Only one of the best known actors in the whole damn world...So, who else graces your ballroom then?”

“Gregory…”

“Look, Myc, I don’t feel...comfortable, without knowing who to expect. I...really want to be there, but…”

“You will be out of your comfort zone, it seems.” Mycroft sounded a little sad.

“Yes, I will, I admit it, but I do want to be there for you. I just...I could do without any surprises, that’s all. I don’t want to get tongue tied.”

“Gregory, please be assured, you will be more than a match for everybody there. Do you not know your own charm and abilities?”

“Charm? Me?”

“Oh, come now, Gregory. You cannot make me believe you are unaware of your...talents in that regard?”

Greg sighed and gave him a sidelong look. “Okay, I know how to turn it on to achieve what I need to in the course of an investigation but...charm, really? I’m into footy, motorbikes and beer, and I’m not...well, I have rough edges...”

“Gregory, you have an innate ability to put people at their ease, you know. You can talk to people far more easily than I can, you can navigate social waters with no trouble at all…”

“Hardly. Mycroft, my intellectual capacity is a bit stretched when it comes to discussing art and politics.”

“You know, really, beneath the veneer, the people you will meet tomorrow night are probably more comfortable discussing football and beer than the latest Turner or Booker prize winner.”

“And you speak from experience?”

“I do. Trust me. My father, for instance, enjoys chatting about fishing while I ended up last year in a three-way argument on who was going to win the six nations, closely followed by a discourse on the merits of the latest Britain’s Got Talent winner. Turned out to be some niece twice-removed of one of my political contacts. Highly entertaining, I do assure you. The discussion, I hasten to add, not the niece.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Greg frowned suddenly and fixed Mycroft with a stern look. “You have this big soiree for New Year…”

Mycroft heard the change in tone. He glanced over at his lover, wariness replacing geniality. “I do, yes. Your point?”

“Well.... I thought you said you were alone for Christmas.”

“I did not lie, Gregory. I was alone for Christmas.”

“But you didn’t need to be. I mean you let me think you were lonely, Mycroft, that you were alone and unloved, but you could have invited your folks, or gone home, considering that you obviously get on well enough with them. So...you picked me up, rescued me... Why, Mycroft? I mean...you didn’t need to be alone for Christmas, did you?”

Mycroft hesitated, trying to formulate the correct response. He would not upset everything he had built up between them with ill-chosen words. However, Gregory would require nothing less than the truth. He was not a man who suffered being lied to. “I suppose not, no. Yet in this instance, I was. Everyone else had other arrangements this year. However, I…” He paused, unsure how to continue. “The truth is, Gregory, I…” Mycroft broke off again and sighed, heavily. “In all honesty Sherlock is right when he accuses me of being lonely. I am a solitary being, through circumstance rather than anything else. Christmas is not my favourite time of year. It has...very negative connotations. With you, I hoped it would be different. Rescuing you was fortuitous, because it gave me the chance to change that negativity into something positive, even if the outcome had been different and you and I had not...found each other, if that is the correct way to describe it? It would still have been enjoyable, positive, something to remember fondly in the years to come.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Gregory?”

“I think so, yes. At first I was a convenience, company at Christmas, someone to share your Christmas pud with, but then…”

“Then it became something I had not even let myself think about, much less hope for. I mean, Gregory, honestly, I am hardly a handsome debonair catch, after all. No, hear me out..." because his Gregory had opened his mouth to refute his words and Mycroft wanted to face the matter head on. "I was in love once, or at least thought I was. He was sweet and kind at first, but then, over time, he changed. One day, he said some...unkind things and I... well, it was Christmas, and I thought I was in love and..." 

"You believed him." Mycroft nodded sadly. "How old were you?"

"During my early years in the Civil Service, my later twenties. He was ten years older. I honestly thought we were going to be together for the rest of our lives...And then he broke it off, quite brutally. It quite destroyed my confidence in myself."

"Did you ever find out why he did that?"

Mycroft nodded. "Eventually. Only after too many years had passed. I was working for MI6 by then and I found archive files..." Mycroft fell quiet and Greg reached out and laid a hand on his thigh.

"Don't tell me if it hurts to talk about it."

Mycroft laid his hand over Greg's. "It hurts less, now. And I want you to know, to understand. I had no idea that he was a spook when he dated me. I found someone who had known him, and he told me the whole sorry tale. Jeremy had been ordered to break our relationship or leave the service. I was apparently a security risk at that time, which in all honesty I suppose I was. He chose the service over me." 

"No chance you could have got back together when you were less of a security risk then?"

"Alas, no. Jeremy died on an MI6 mission in the late 90s, shortly before I began working with them.

"Aww, that's unfair," Greg sympathised. "Hang on though. I am having problems thinking of you as a security risk...I mean, the great Mycroft Holmes, a security risk? What on earth classified you like that? What were you up to?"

"I was working in the office of a certain MP who was known for certain sympathies. So he was being observed, rather closely. I left his service shortly after I found out. However, by then the damage had been done."

"So that's why Christmas isn't very good for you?"

"Alas, yes, although now I do have something positive with which to combat those darker connotations, for which I must thank you, Gregory."

Greg smiled. "I do hope," he said softly, "that I'm not a security risk?"

Mycroft turned to look at his lover with concern. "Let me reassure you, Gregory. You are about as far from being a security risk as it is possible to be. Besides, considering it is now part of my remit to determine what constitutes a security threat and what does not, I think I am amply qualified to say that you are not on my current list of risks to the safety of the Realm. So, you may relax. I am not about to break up our fledgling relationship for Queen and Country."

"That's a relief," Greg replied. "Good job I trust you."

“You should. Ah, good timing." Greg was sure he could hear relief in Mycroft's voice. "We have arrived at our first destination. Let me introduce you to Dougal.”

Dougal turned out to be the owner of a Turkish-style bath house. The man had a broad Glaswegian accent and muscles like The Rock, but he admitted them into his domain with courtesy and pleasantries, and the two men spent the morning as Mycroft had promised, being groomed and pampered until Greg finally felt more like himself again and less as though he had been through a mincer. They began with a steam bath, followed by a full-body massage, ending with a proper haircut and a very close shave. Greg did not recognise himself when he glanced in the mirror. He caught Mycroft casting admiring glances his way and grinned. “Well, you did say he’d make a new man of me.”

“You do scrub up rather well, my dear,” Mycroft complemented, looking pleased as he lead the way back out.

“Er...you did pay, didn’t you?” Greg murmured, ignoring the complement, which in truth had made him feel slightly embarrassed.

Mycroft chuckled. “I settle at the end of the month, without fail. I have had an account with Dougal for a long time now. He’s quite the best in the business. I do not walk out without paying for things, Gregory. You must try to curb your policeman’s instincts, my dear.”

“Ah, okay. Well then… What now?”

“Now we go shopping.”

Mycroft got into the waiting car and once Greg was seated, he rapped the screen between them and the driver. “Piccadilly,” he ordered and the car moved gently into the midday traffic.

Shopping with Mycroft Holmes certainly proved to be an experience. London was in its post-Christmas sales mode, decorations still adorning the streets but large SALE notices up in most of the shop windows. At least, they were in the high street shop chains. Mycroft’s taste went to more exclusive shops and brands. With his pay packet, even if a DI’s pay made sure he wasn’t a pauper, Greg certainly could not afford to frequent establishments such as those Mycroft Holmes preferred.

The car dropped them off right outside the doors of each place they went to and picked them up again in the same place, so at the very least, Greg got neither very wet nor very cold despite the shitty weather.

“I think a little off-the-peg shopping may be in order,” Mycroft suggested, having murmured to his driver their next destination. They stopped in front of a modern glass fronted store in Sloane Street.

“Mycroft.”

“Gregory?”

“This is Tom Ford.”

“Yes, Gregory.”

“Tom Ford who dresses 007.”

“I believe so.”

“Mycroft…”

"Gregory?”

“You _cannot_ be serious about this.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because. This is Tom Ford. A coat from here will cost more than my car…”

Mycroft suppressed a smile. “Then you need to considerably improve the quality of your car, Gregory.”

“No, you are absolutely not buying me a car, Mycroft…”

Mycroft’s smile was broad. “Of course not, you require a coat first and foremost. Although your own car broke down, did it not?”

“Mycroft, I’m warning you. A car is going too far. I couldn’t accept it. I mean...no. Just...no. Really.”

“Are you quite sure? I was thinking a smart Audi..."

“Of course I’m bloody sure. You are _not_ buying me a car.”

“Of course not, Gregory. I am buying you a coat, which presently is far more practical. And possibly shoes, and a sweater or two. Come on.”

Mycroft insisted on a new warm overcoat and soft cashmere scarf, two cashmere sweaters and several shirts. He also insisted on new shoes, although the price tag nearly gave Greg heart failure.

“Nonsense, Gregory. They are superbly made; quality that will last. You owe it to yourself to dress well…”

“Yes, but…”

“But nothing, Gregory. They fit you well. You are having them. Please do not be difficult.”

“Difficult? That’s rich. You’re doing the insisting.”

“Yes, I am. Gregory, please. You have quite honestly saved me,” Mycroft admitted softly. “I am doing something I want to do, for you, to say thank you, if for nothing else. I want to do something to make you happy, and this...well, the cost is a drop in the ocean to me, really. I have never had the opportunity to do this, not for anyone else. I know that you like the recent 007 movies, and Tom Ford has provided Mr Craig’s suits. I want you to feel amazing, Gregory. And you will...Please, I really do not know what else to say.”

“Okay, Mycroft. Have it your way if it makes you happy, but we’re not going to any more menswear places, okay? You’re handing over what amounts to a small mortgage for me, and that...well, no more, okay? I wouldn’t be comfortable with it.”

“Are you sure? There is so much I would love to see you dressed in, Gregory.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and... and undressed, too,” Mycroft murmured softly.

Greg grinned. “Yeah, I’ll bet there is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might gather Charles Graham is fictitious, although loosely based on a few famous male leads. I don't usually do FPF, so you'll have to make do with an OMC. Kind of.


	12. Meretricious...and a Happy New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping, parents and New Year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next to last, folks. Please read back over the last chapter, I have revised and added, because my sieve of a brain forgot a couple of details and I required to correct them. Enjoy.

They made a few other visits before a late lunch; a jewellers’ shop (“Last minute gift for Mummy.”), a florist’s (“Flowers for the table tomorrow.”), and a leather goods shop (“Driving gloves for our father.”). The baby and toddler clothes shop was a surprise though. When Greg looked curious, Mycroft explained that his housekeeper’s daughter had just given birth and he wanted a baby gift for the little one. Greg smiled at that. It was pretty clear Mycroft valued his staff, and they were almost considered his extended family.   
Greg picked up a couple of things to send to his sister and brother for their youngest kids and wondered about it all. There were his siblings with their traditional marriages and 2.4 kids, good jobs, nice cars and a mortgage each, and here he was, divorced, no kids, a small flat, a clapped out car and about to venture into what he hoped would be a rewarding relationship with a man.   
“Penny for them?” Mycroft murmured, smiling.  
“Oh, just wool gathering.”   
“So I see. Nothing distressing, I hope.”  
“You know it wasn’t. You’d have been able to tell from my squint or something.”  
Mycroft chuckled. “Well, I detected no ‘squint’ so am I to assume you are perfectly fine?”  
“I was thinking about my sister and brother, that’s all. How traditional they are, and look at me, whoop-de-do, I’m a divorced single bisexual male, now with a man…”  
“Doubtless you will now tick some more of the Met’s diversity policy boxes.”  
Greg barked a laugh. “Doubtless. That wasn’t my point though.”  
“You are an individual, Gregory. You are not your Brother, nor your sister. Your life is your own, and so are your choices. Stop measuring your success by your siblings’ achievements. Are you happy?”  
“Actually yes, I am.”  
“Then you have no need to compare yourself with anyone else.”

Everywhere they went, bags got handed off to one of their shadows, a big silent man named Johnson. He had drawn the short straw, obviously having been designated to protect their shopping for the day. He stoically accompanied them, taking charge of the bags and stowing them in the car after every shop. In fact his sole purpose seemed to be bag carrier.  
“He’s part of my close protection team,” Mycroft admitted, “But he isn’t actually on duty. They designate one to do the job so we don’t become encumbered. If in the unfortunate instance that we need to evacuate, it means we can move quickly, and whoever gets the role of package handler is not part of the immediate protection detail, thereby not reducing the team surrounding us. Merely a practical solution.”  
“You think of everything, don’t you?”   
“I do my best. I can rely upon Anthea fill in any gaps.”

Visiting Fortnum and Masons was an education. Mycroft was aiming to secure last minute treats for the New Year food and drink. He picked several choice items and then waited while some hampers were made up for him, their contents carefully chosen.   
“Who are the lucky recipients of those then?” Greg enquired.   
“Bennett and Mrs Lewis, and Janet, among others. They look after me so well throughout the year, they deserve some decent reward for their labours.”  
“Aw, that’s nice. You’re a really decent bloke, Myc.”  
Mycroft really didn’t have a comment to make at that one so he stayed quiet, basking in the warmth of the fact that Greg thought him a decent man.   
“Myc, sorry, but I need the loo…”   
“Ah, very well.” Mycroft nodded toward the entrance. “You’ll pick up the signs through those doors. I shall stay here and wait for you.” Greg nodded and departed, disappearing from sight. He had an ulterior motive but he knew he didn’t have much time. It would take all his skills to make sure Mycroft did not suspect anything.

Mycroft considered his shopping list. if they visited a couple more artisan sweet shops and chocolatiers, doubtless he could manage everything he wanted. Mycroft wanted to order gifts for his guests; small boxes of hand-crafted chocolates, tied up with tiny bows and topped off with delicate silk flowers. He glanced over at the door, aware that one of their invisible ‘minders’ had peeled away from the wall and followed Gregory (at a discreet distance) toward the men’s room. 

The moment Greg was out of the door he stopped, wondering which was the better way to go. That was when he realised he had a tail. He sighed and turned. “Do you fellas have to follow us everywhere?” he barked, annoyed at the intrusion. Instead of staying silent though, the man smiled.   
“Sorry, sir. Mr Holmes orders, and I’d rather jump off a cliff than disobey him.” His rueful tone left Greg in no doubt as to the consequences, should the man ever not follow orders.   
“Look, this is awkward. I want to buy the daft git a present, but...well, I wanted it to be a surprise.”  
“We are the soul of discretion, sir. That is why Mr Holmes picked us. If you wish to buy him something, he won’t hear it from me. Ms Mallory will, but that’s protocol.”  
“Ms Mallory?”  
“Anthea Mallory, sir. Mr Holmes Personal Assistant.”  
So that’s her name. Greg smiled. “That’s fine. She won’t tell him either, unless it’s a matter of National Security, and I have a good idea that macaron won’t come under that…”   
“Sir, let me do it for you. I’ll tell control, but nobody will miss me for ten minutes, I can put them in with the other bags Johnson is carrying, and you’ll just need to fish them out at the townhouse, sir.”  
“That would be great,” Greg said. “Er...are you guys supposed to do that?”  
“No sir, not at all,” the man replied conspiratorially, “but because you’re here, we have an extra detail and I’m using my initiative to prevent escalation of a situation, sir. If Mr Holmes realises you’re missing, all Hell will break loose, but if I simply go buy you the requisite goods, then we should be fine.”   
Greg passed him two twenties. “Take it out of that and keep any change, and no telling me you aren’t allowed to, okay?”  
The man chuckled. “Very well, sir. What’ll it be?”  
“Just get me Fortnum’s chocolate biscuits and some macarons, however much that gets you. I arranged with Mr Bennett to purchase something else as well, so if you do this, I'm sorted.”  
He watched the man walk away and returned to Mycroft.   
“Refreshed, my dear?”  
“Yes, thanks. All done. How about you?”  
“Nearly done. I thought lunch at The Square…”

The rest of the day went quickly. Greg realised he could get used to the life Mycroft lived but it was something of a culture shock. He didn’t entirely feel comfortable allowing Mycroft to pay for everything, despite the natural way in which he proffered his credit card (bloody platinum for God’s sake) without hesitation everywhere they went. They returned home mid afternoon with their purchases and Greg managed to ask Bennett to put his purchases aside for him without attracting Mycroft’s notice. Things were underway to prepare the place for visitors and there were two more maids going to and fro to the dining room.  
“We begin preparations today, rather than leave it all last minute. My parents are due in…” Mycroft consulted his watch, “...fifty minutes…”  
“Bloody Hell, Myc. That’s less than an hour!”  
Mycroft paused at Greg’s outburst and smiled. “Last time I looked, fifty minutes was less than an hour, yes. You will have more than enough time to prepare for it, my love. They are given drinks in the library when they arrive and Bennett sees to their needs before ever I turn up. They’re used to it by now. You can retire to your room and nap if you need to, fortify yourself for what is sure to be my mother’s third degree.”   
Greg groaned. “Oh, God. What if she hates me?”  
“She will not hate you, Gregory. There is no universe in which my mother would not love you. Good grief, you are a Detective Inspector with the Metropolitan Police. You could only have done better had you been a doctor.”  
“I might need one after this…”

“Mickey!”  
“Mummy, how are you?”  
“Fine, fine. Well, we’ve both had a touch of flu, tummy bugs, the odd runny nose, you know how it is. Not getting any younger… but you’re looking positively radiant, my dear. Your new man looking after you?” She dug him gently in the ribs with a conspiratorial grin and earned a shy frown from her son and a tutting noise from his father.  
“Come now, dear, don’t tease. You’ll have ample time to chat later. I dare say you could use her, son. Your mother’s interrogation techniques are second to none.”  
“Gregory is resting at present. He wasn’t well over Christmas and I have...Well...he’s been staying with me.”  
“Good grief, Mikey…”  
“Mother, Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could struggle to the end of it…”  
“Oh, pish, Mycroft, you mean to tell me, you have been looking after someone?”  
“Why shouldn’t I?”  
“Why shouldn’t you? Mycroft, of course you should, but...he really must be something special then?” Mummy’s voice had gone soft. Mycroft looked at the floor and then up, meeting her gaze.  
“Yes, he is,” he said simply. Mummy’s smile widened and she squeezed his hand. 

“Now or never,” Greg muttered to himself, facing the door to the Library. Bennett had been up to fetch him, to find him pacing the floor.   
“I promise you, sir, Mrs Holmes doesn’t bite,” the butler had said. “She’s really very nice when you get to know her.”  
“But I’m cour…” He stopped. Courting her son? Was he really? Am I? Courting Mycroft? Bloody hell...  
He steeled himself, then opened the door..Three sets of eyes settled on him as he walked through. He tried to smile, to brazen it out, as he did with every occasion that overset him.   
“Oh, Mycroft.” Mrs Holmes exclaimed, her voice loaded with pleased surprise, then she smiled and extended a soft hand toward the newcomer. “You must be Gregory.”  
“Yes...I mean, call me Greg, if you like. Mycroft insists on calling me by my full name but honestly, nobody else calls me that.” He took the offered hand and smiled his usual easy smile.   
“Yes, well, Mycroft likes full names, don’t you dear?”  
Greg glanced up and their eyes met, Mycroft’s wary gaze almost pleading with him to understand. “Gregory, this is my mother, Marion Holmes, and my father, Peter.”   
Peter stepped forward and shook hands with Greg, a warm smile plastered on his genial face.   
“Good to meet you, son. So, this is the man who has finally thawed our Mycroft, eh? Welcome to the madhouse, m’boy.”  
“So, Mycroft tells me you are a policeman, Gregory…” Marion said.   
“Yes, Mrs Holmes. Detective Inspector, here in London…”  
“So you have to tell me how you met…”

By the time dinner was ready, Marion knew that Greg was born in June 1963 (Oo, a Cancerian, they’re very family orientated.”), had been divorced (“Well, I’m sure you tried your best, dear.”), had been a copper since he was 23 when he had graduated from Hendon Police College (“A career policeman, eh?”), and had met her son because of Sherlock’s involvement (“Well, Mikey does worry about him such a lot, you know. Much more than I do, dear.”). After dinner, they finally settled into a mutually satisfying discussion about younger brothers over a companionable Glenlivet. If it surprised Greg that Marion’s favourite tipple was straight whisky, he made no comment.  
“And do you have any siblings, Gregory?”  
“Two. I have a sister and a brother, both younger than me. So I guess I know a thing or two about annoying little brothers.”   
Marion laughed. “I had six, all younger. And Peter has two brothers. They were all men in his family. Mycroft and Sherlock have so many cousins, it’s ridiculous. Christmas is a nightmare. Thank God a lot of them moved to France.”  
“I have French relatives too.”  
“Ah, is that the reason for that wonderful name of yours?”  
“Oh...er...yes, yes it is.”   
“I thought so. No fooling me.” She paused, and looked at them both, Mycroft standing slightly behind Greg’s chair. “A pity there won’t be any grandchildren, but…” She sighed and smiled. “I would prefer my sons to be happy. Besides, things have changed now. You can always adopt…”  
Behind him, Mycroft spluttered. Greg chuckled. “Bit early yet, Marion, but I’m not averse to it.”  
“Good, good.” She glanced at her watch. “Five to eleven. Well, a bit longer before New Year, I think I need the little girls’ room. Won’t be long.” She got up gracefully and made her way out of the door. The doorbell chimed and Mycroft frowned.   
“Who on earth is that at this time?”   
“No idea, but Bennett will find out.” Moments later, the door opened and Bennett peered in.   
“Bennett?” Mycroft frowned.   
“Sir, your brother and Doctor Watson are here. Shall I show them in?”  
Mycroft and Greg exchanged a disbelieving glance and they both shot to their feet. “Of course. Of course. Would you apologise to Mrs Jenkins and ask her to make up the Blue room, please?”  
“Already done, sir, I believe.” He turned away. “Gentlemen, please go on in. Refreshments?” 

“Sherlock, John, to what do we owe this pleasure?” Mycroft reached to shake John’s hand while Sherlock swept past him.  
“John insisted we come visit,” Sherlock replied tartly. “After all, it is the New Year, and you did invite us to grace your halls yet again.”  
“Well, well, that was very...agreeable of you. Do please sit down.”  
“Dad,” Sherlock engulfed his stepfather in a hug, which was returned enthusiastically, watched by a bemused Watson and a surprised Mycroft. Greg grinned. The door opened again and Marion stepped back in, saw her son and squealed with delight.   
“Oh, Sherlock, you came!”  
“Mummy,” he said, allowing himself to be smothered in a hug from her.   
“And John too.” She quickly transferred her affections and hugged the doctor as well. “Oh my, this...this is wonderful. My two boys, and their partners...Oh, this is the Best New Year ever! Isn’t it the best New Year ever, Peter?”  
“Best New Year ever,” he echoed, smiling affably. 

They went up to the roof terrace to see in the New Year, another part of the house Mycroft had kept secret. It was cold, but they muffled up and huddled together and Greg wouldn’t have swapped this for the world. They drank champagne and wished each other Happy New Year, listening to the bells ringing in 2016, and sang an impromptu Auld Lang Syne initiated by Marrion, while a backdrop of fireworks split the air with their sparkling rosettes of splintered sparks. Tomorrow would be the grand reception and New Year Party but Greg couldn’t care less. He had Mycroft, his parents seemed to like their son’s choice of partner and frankly, Greg couldn’t remember a time when he had felt so at home. Roll on 2016, he thought. I’m ready for you.


	13. The Day Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the party arrives, but is Greg ready?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have taken artistic license with the weather. The UK had no snow last Christmas, okay? Only rain. But this is fiction.

New Year’s Day and crime was on hold. At least it was in Greg’s book. He had a few more days to enjoy at Mycroft’s pleasure and then he would be back to work in the somewhat wetter capital. Snow had changed to rain and it had rained rather a lot over the last week, drowning certain parts of the country with flash floods and sparking climate change discussions in the papers. It hadn’t stopped this New Year’s celebrants from having the usual shower (no pun intended) of drunk and disorderlies, but on the whole, the serious crimes seemed to have calmed a bit. Nobody had tried summoning him, which might have had more to do with his host than the lack of murders, but Greg was not complaining. Despite his illness this break had done more to recharge his batteries than anything else had since...well, forever. He could return to work and the new year with a new outlook, and a new partner.

Greg took his time in the bathroom, looking approvingly at the new him reflected back in the mirror. The pampering he had received at the Turkish Baths the previous day had improved how he was feeling to the point that he had almost thrown the infection off and his cough had almost disappeared. When he emerged from the bathroom it was to find that Bennett had arrived with a steaming hot cup of tea.

“Good morning, sir. Breakfast is served in the dining room, when you are ready. Mr Mycroft and his parents are already there.”

“Thank you, Mr Bennett. Happy New Year to you, by the way.”

“Thank you, sir. Happy New Year to you too. I hope the celebrations were satisfactory last night?”

“Yes, they were. I...I wonder...That thing I asked you to get for me…”

“I have it in my office, sir, together with the biscuits and macaron from yesterday.”

“Great. Thanks. I was thinking...what’s the plan for this evening exactly?”

“Usually, Mr Mycroft and his parents get together for drinks before the majority of their guests begin to arrive, around 18.00 hours in the Library. Usually the only person to join them is Miss Anthea. Mr Sherlock and Doctor Watson also, if they attend of course. Dinner is at 19.00, followed by a sojourn in the drawing room afterwards. That can go on for a long time though.”

“I was thinking maybe catch him in the library?”

“May I suggest…?”

“Go ahead.”

“I would wait, sir, find a moment to get Mr Mycroft on his own later on. He usually does not care for surprises, you see, and we wouldn’t want you to stumble at the first fence, as it were.”

“Oh. Okay. Right then, I’ll take your advice. Wouldn’t want to upset his equilibrium.”

“Very good, sir.” Bennett smiled and withdrew.

Greg sipped the tea slowly, trying to order his thoughts. He was either going to make a colossal prat of himself, or it was the best thing he would have done in his life, ever.

He was greeted effusively at breakfast, and was surprised to see even Sherlock had stirred himself, although John looked a little the worse for wear. Greg grinned and greeted everyone at table, slapping John on the back as he passed, eliciting a soft moan. “What’s up, John? He keep you up past your bedtime?”

John swatted him and then groaned again. “Fu...push off, Greg,” he snapped, modifying his language since Mrs Holmes was present.

“Why, Gregory,” Marion said, with a barely suppressed smile, “I did not have you pinned for a cruel man?”

“Sorry, John. Marion is right, I should be more sympathetic.” He shook his head. “You’re a bit of a lightweight, though. You can’t have been up much past 2…”

“2.30…”

“What on earth were you drinking?”

“My Talisker,” Mycroft answered tartly.

Greg’s grin broadened. “Get some breakfast into you, you’ll feel better. Drink something, preferably not coffee…”

“I do know what to do, Greg. ‘M a doctor…”

“Yeah, right.” Greg shoveled bacon and eggs onto his plate and poured himself a generous coffee. He sat down next to Mycroft, leaning in to buss a kiss to the man’s cheek. “This,” he said, with relish, “looks amazing. Did you sleep well, love?” Since Mycroft's parents were staying, they had decided discretion was the better part of valor and opted to sleep in their own rooms. 

“I did indeed, Gregory. You look chipper yourself.”

“I am, thank you. So, what’s the plan for today?”

“You can relax, do what you will until this afternoon. You may watch television, read books, go for a walk...although the weather is far from clement for that kind of pursuit. It is up to you what you do. I on the other hand have a list of things to get through.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Onerous, but not ominous. Tedious but not terribly so. I shall be done in time for this evening, fear not.”

“Let me help?”

Mycroft paused. He had never had anyone offer to help before. He wasn’t quite sure what he could delegate. “In truth, Gregory, I am not sure you can. I am a tad too used to doing this on my own. Not to mention matters of National Security. However,” he added on seeing the slightly crestfallen look, “maybe there will be something…” He was rewarded with a brighter grin that lit the room. Mycroft realized there was little he would not do to secure the appearance of that luminous smile.

So Greg spent the rest of the morning with his partner (he found he liked referring to Mycroft in that way, even in his own head) reviewing place settings, making sure gifts were packaged and correctly labelled, that rooms were readied for those guests he knew were staying, and that all the extraneous details had been completed to his satisfaction. Mycroft checked absolutely everything; from a sufficient supply of his (and his guest’s) favorites in the drinks cabinet (there was one in each room), to the correct placing of the monogrammed towels in the bedrooms. Gregory soon learned that for Mycroft the devil was in the details.

Time flew, and they stopped for lunch in time for Mycroft to catch up on a missed morning’s work, reviewing his emails and text messages. The next hour (following lunch) was spent on the phone in his office. That was the only time Greg was banished, because Mycroft argued he needed the privacy. Anthea turned up during this time, suit bag in hand, and went up to the room usually reserved for her exclusive use when she stayed over. Shortly after that Greg went up to his room and decided to nap, knowing Bennett would be sent in search of him when he was needed.

The next thing he knew there was a knock on the door but it was Mycroft, not Bennett, who peered into the room.

“Hello, love,” Greg murmured sleepily. “What brings you here?”

“I’m sorry. I woke you.” Mycroft sounded contrite.

“No problem.” Greg stretched and groaned softly. “Oh, that’s...better. Come in, love. Missed you.”

“My apologies, I am only sorry that the workaday things managed to intrude on our day. Politics never sleeps.”

“Wouldn’t know that to go by our present government.”

“No comment, Gregory, as well you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Come here, you. Did you manage to save the known world again?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I do not hold any illusions, Gregory. I am not the sole arbiter of world peace.”

“No, but you do a damn fine job of being part of it.” He engulfed the man in a hug which quickly grew heated and they ended up lying on the bed, cuddling and kissing.

“This is...nice.” Mycroft stared into Gregory’s dark brown eyes, mere inches away, and marveled. _How has my life come to this?_ Strong arms pulled him closer and they lay there for a while, dozing in the drowsy warmth.

A knock on the door a scant half hour later woke them both and Mycroft struggled to his feet, tidying his appearance hastily. “Come in.” He had no wish to appear so... _so what, content? Could one be mussed with contentment?_ He sighed, frustrated.

“Sirs.” Bennett entered, unphased at finding the two of them together and nodding a greeting to them.

“Ah, Bennett, is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, sir. I came to tell you that it is approaching four o’clock, and the first of your guests has arrived. Prince Achmed is currently in the Jade room, settling in.”

“Ah, very good, Bennett. I shall greet the Prince shortly. Thank you.”

Bennett checked his watch. “Magrib is at 16.02 today, sir.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Bennett. I shall of course, wait until later then.”

“Magrib?” Greg asked when the butler had exited.

“Salah. Islamic prayer times. Achmed is Moslem and adheres rigidly to his faith. He always has the Jade room when he stays here, it faces east.”

“Thoughtful,” Greg murmured. “Nobody can say you don’t take care of your guests.”

“Of course I do, Gregory. Anything less would simply not be acceptable.”

Shortly after that Mycroft disappeared to dress for dinner, something he encouraged Greg to do as well. “I know it will be a while yet but these things take a little time,” he said before he left. “The family meets early, in the library.”

“I know. Bennett told me.”

“I want you to be there too, my dear. If you like, I shall send Bennett to check you over. He is a master at making sure you don’t miss anything. I don’t mean to insult your intelligence, but you expressed a little...lack of confidence earlier, concerning attending the event. I merely wish to save you any doubt that you have achieved the correct appearance?”

“Thanks. I know I’m not well-versed in attending these shindigs, so I will accept. I can dress myself, obviously. I’m a big boy now, but I’ll accept Bennett’s practiced eye on me when I’m done. I _really_ want to do you credit, you know.”

Mycroft cast him a fond look. “I am in no doubt that you shall, Gregory.”

“And I’m just as sure I won’t, but then, we shall see, shan’t we? We’ll let Bennett be the judge of that.” Mycroft only smiled and exited the room.

**0000000**

“Mikey, whatever is the matter?” Marion Holmes swept up to her son where he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He was on pins by the look of him, nerves making him shift almost imperceptibly from foot to foot, although no one short of herself, Sherlock and possibly Bennett would have noticed.

“I am fine, mummy. I am merely awaiting Gregory’s arrival…”

“Aha, all becomes clear. He will be down shortly, my love, and looking perfect, I shouldn’t wonder. So do not fret.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“What if…”

“Mycroft?” Marion stepped close. “Do not underestimate your young man. He would never let you down. If you cannot believe that, then you may as well cease and desist right now.”

“Mummy, please, neither of us is young.”

“Pish. When you get to my age, everyone is young. Now quit fretting, Mycroft. Faint heart never won fair lord.” She squeezed his arm reassuringly. The next moment her quiet “Oh my,” made Mycroft follow his mother’s gaze up the stairs. He froze, eyes widening. _Oh my, indeed_. The vision at the top of the sweeping staircase could not be real, could not be his. As he watched, Gregory began to descend the stairs _like Cinderella at the ball_ , only this Cinderella was a man, and a very attractive man at that. _No, scratch that. Not even 007 could match the suave sophistication in Gregory’s appearance. My God, is that a swagger in his step? Could someone swagger down stairs?_

“Well, if I were twenty years younger…” his mother murmured.

“And not married to an old fogey like me,” Mycroft’s father said softly, hugging her.

She swatted him and smiled widely. “Oh you. Don’t creep up on me like that, you…”

“Come on, let’s go inside. Sherlock is locked in a debate with John and I have a feeling we might need your considerable talent for diplomacy…” They exchanged a pointed look and then the two of them disappeared, leaving Mycroft to welcome his rather well-dressed lover.

Gregory was clad in the Tom Ford dinner suit they had bought the day before. It fit his frame perfectly, showing off his physique rather well. Almost too well for Mycroft’s liking, considering it took all his available willpower to quell the desire stirring at the sight of this amazing man.

“Well, I hope I don’t disgrace you, love,” Greg said gently, leaning in and then pulling back uncertainly. He wasn’t sure whether Mycroft wanted an open display of affection or not. He was relieved when the man leaned in for a small kiss.

“My apologies, Gregory. Most of those here tonight are friends but I appreciate your...hesitation. I would prefer small displays of affection when in public, only while we find our feet, as it were?”

“Not a problem, love. I’m happy to go at your pace, you know that.”

“I am forever in awe of your patience, my dear,” Mycroft said with a soft smile. “May I say, you look stunning tonight, Gregory.”

“What, really? _Really_ really?” Greg scrutinized Mycroft’s expression for dissembling and found none. “Wow, well, thanks, I think. You can thank Bennett though. He sorted me out a bit. Have to say, you don’t look so bad yourself.”

“Thank you, Gregory. I...I am glad you’re here.”

“Me too, even if I do still feel outclassed. I’m here for you, though, not the rest of them.”

“I have told you, there is no reason for you to feel outclassed. You are an amazing man, Gregory.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You still don’t believe me.”

“No, I don’t. I’m ordinary. Nothing amazing about me…”

“We shall have to agree to disagree then. To me, Gregory, to _me_ , you are something I had stopped believing might one day be mine. I had ceased to have faith that anybody might appear who could understand me, moreover I had ceased to believe there could be anyone who might actually want to get to know me, and then to offer me compassion and kindness concerning my life? No, Gregory, no matter your own opinion of yourself, mine is honest, and I do believe the words I am offering you.”

“Well...guess I have to believe it then.”

“Yes, Gregory. Please do.”

“So...you’re telling me I’m awesome?”

Mycroft’s face split into a soft grin. “Yes, Gregory, you are awesome. If that makes you feel better.”

Greg grinned and wrapped an arm around Mycroft. “Team Awesome,” he said. “I feel a pub quiz coming on. Team Awesome would wipe the floor with them.”

“Now, now, Gregory. Baby steps. You know how I feel about public houses.”

“A man can dream, can’t he?” Greg’s grin widened. “You, me, a couple of pints in the beer garden of the Earl of Essex.”

Mycroft looked at the dazzling grin and shook his head in gentle exasperation. He remembered doing the same to Sherlock too many times to count. “As I said, Gregory, baby steps.”

Greg's grin didn't waver. He nodded agreeably, then offered his arm to Mycroft and together they went into the library. 


	14. Shared Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. When this continues it shall be as another series. 
> 
> Sadly this is the chapter my good friend and soulmate, Krekta, will never read. I lost her yesterday while my Gregory gains a partner. No more rps in the early hours, my sweet. My Greg has no Mycroft, My Sherlock has lost his John, My Jack is grieving his Ianto all over again. 
> 
> Sorry to be maudlin and sentimental, Mycroft would kick me, but this chapter is bittersweet to say the least.

“So, Gregory,” Marrion almost pinned him in a corner once the family was all present and drinks had been dispensed. She had waited until Mycroft was engaged in conversation with his step-father and Sherlock and John were similarly engaged in a discussion with Anthea before she pounced.

Greg eyed her warily. “Er...yes, Marrion?”

“Do you have... _plans_ , you and Mycroft?”

“Plans?”

“Oh, come, come, my dear, _plans_. Do I have to be more specific?”

“Well, actually Mrs Homes…”

“Marrion.”

“Marrion, we...really, we have only been together a very short while. I have no wish to rush things. Mycroft is…”

“...a ditherer. Mikey has never been one to rush into anything. He is not the least bit impetuous. However, neither is he confident in matters of the heart. Be bold for him, Gregory, please. If he truly has feelings for you, and believe me, he has shown a level of regard for you heretofore unprecedented in his life to date, then seize the day for him?”

“I’m not sure I can, Marrion.”

“What? Why on earth not?”

“Because.” Greg sighed. “Look, Marrion, I think I’m in love with Mycroft, but...much as I might love him, he needs to realise that on his own. He also needs to understand his feelings before we decide anything more...permanent. We’re pretty new to this, both of us. I’ve been here a week and we decided to give this a go only a few days ago. I was married for a long time, and I am certainly not familiar with dating and relationships. I failed at the first one. I have no desire to do so again. I will give Mycroft all the time he needs, and all the support he needs, but whether he dithers or not, well, that’s Mycroft, and if he did things differently, he wouldn’t be the man I know, and love. So, I am sorry if I disappoint you, but our relationship will go at the pace we both agree on, because if either of us try pushing things, it’ll only end in disaster.” Greg met Marrion’s gaze steadily, and watched as a smile broke out.

“Whatever else you might be, you are not a disappointment, Gregory. Far from it. You will be very good for my son.”

“We’ll be very good for each other,” Greg replied with a smile. “Rest assured, the moment we make any plans, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”

“Gregory, is Mummy behaving herself?”

“Mikey!” She swatted her son none too gently for creeping up behind her.

“Don’t worry, love. Your mum has been making sure I don’t get lonely.”

“Lonely? I fail to see how you could be, considering you know everyone here…”

“Come on, Mycroft,” Marrion said. “Refill my glass for me and let’s drink a toast to the New Year.”

Greg watched Marrion steer Mycroft away and chuckled, draining his own glass and following in their wake. He could certainly see where Mycroft gained many of his mannerisms from.

After their family time in the library, everybody moved to the drawing room to join the rest of their guests. A few had already arrived, including Lady Elizabeth Smallwood and a small cadre of Mycroft’s colleagues. Greg noted that Mycroft hadn’t come into the drawing room, but as Greg was engaged in a discussion with Peter concerning the merits of fly fishing he wasn’t in a position to find out why.

“When you and Mycroft are free to spend a few days, have him bring you over,” Peter suggested. “We have the fishing rights to the riverside that borders our property, and I would be more than willing to teach you.”

“Is he trying to get you to go fishing with him?” The fond exasperation in Marrion’s voice was clear. “He does it to everyone…”

“Yes, and he’s succeeded. It’s always something I wanted to have a go at.”

Marrion rolled her eyes as she passed by them. “Oh gracious, now there’ll be two fishing widows in the family. Oh, Elizabeth, there you are. How are you?”

As soon as he could, Greg slipped out the door in search of his lover. He found him loitering in his own hallway. “Mycroft?”

“Yes, Gregory?”

“You not coming in yet?”

“I am awaiting our other guests. As host it is my duty to meet and greet, as it were. You don’t have to stay though.”

“If it’s okay with you, can I keep you company? I mean, I am your new partner after all. Seeing as it’s official and everything.”

An unexpected bloom of warmth spread through Mycroft’s chest. “Thank you, Gregory. That would be most acceptable.” Mycroft checked his watch. “I am afraid one or two are a little late…”

On that note, Greg decided to take the opportunity to give Mycroft his gift. He opened his mouth to begin but the doorbell rang and Bennett answered, and then his partner was moving away to greet someone.

“Hetty!” Mycroft enthusiastically greeted the surprisingly little woman whom Bennett had just escorted to the drawing room door. Greg shut his mouth again with a sigh and watched as Mycroft grasped her offered hand and dropped a kiss on the back of it, all while bowing low.

“Never does that to me…” Greg muttered with a grin.

“Tosh, Gregory,” Mycroft chided, straightening. “You are neither a Lady nor a colleague. Henrietta is both.”

“Ex-colleague, I should say,” she replied in a matter-of-fact New England accent.

“Never, Hetty. Once a colleague in this business, always a colleague,” Mycroft assured. “Moreover a good friend too, which also thankfully never changes. Gregory, this is Henrietta Lange, Operations Manager of NCIS Los Angeles, fluent in ten languages, and an avid fan of old English churches.”

“I find their atmosphere soothing,” she said, enigmatically. “Timeless. Let’s me know things carry on no matter what. Glad to meet you, young man.”

“Pleasure,” Greg said with one of his winning smiles, taking the same hand and dropping an equally charming kiss to the knuckles.

“My, my, two gallant young men attending me. I am _very_ lucky. It’s good to be back in Blighty, Mycroft. I am sorry to be the late arrival but my flight was abysmal.”

Mycroft tut-tutted and commiserated, assuring her it was fine, then handed her graciously on through the door to be met by Marion and swept into the festivities.

“Flight?” Greg frowned. “She’s flown over here specially?”

“Oh yes, does it every year. Private jet,” Mycroft explained.

“NCIS?” Greg enquired, curious.

“Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” Mycroft explained.”United States.”

“Never heard of ‘em. Do I want to know why you consider her a colleague?”

“Probably not, but please, do not trust her, with anything,” Mycroft said unexpectedly. “Unless you are working to a common goal, that is. She’s ex- of the Service, a bit of a dark horse and a very, very good operative.”

“Make that small, cunning, and deadly,” Sherlock commented as he slipped out the room and walked across the hall toward them, John following a step to the left and behind, like a bodyguard. “She has always reminded me of Rikki Tikki Tavi.”

“Succinct as always.” Mycroft smiled as his brother drew level, and cast an eye over John Watson. “You have your own version to hand,” he added in an undertone.

“The small ones are always the most dangerous, as you well know,” Sherlock replied softly. “Moreover they are usually the most loyal too.”

“I know. Never underestimate a cuddly jumper. Made that mistake years ago.” Abruptly he raised his voice again, including John in the conversation. “Why don’t you go on back in, brother dear, we’ll be with you soon.”

“John and I slipped out to…”

“Powder your noses?” Greg suggested. John snorted a laugh and Sherlock glared.

“ _Freshen up_ ,” he sneered.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Greg grinned.

“ _They_ are not calling _it_ anything. We were simply wanting a breath of air. Your colleagues are enough to stifle anybody, brother dear.”

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I must agree somewhat with that assessment. George is enough to asphyxiate anybody, his conversation is so dry it is positively airless.”

“You better stick around then, Sherlock,” Greg suggested. “Looks like you might have a murder to solve.”

“That’s your division, Lestrade.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Why, John of course. Now, if you don’t mind, we are wasting time.” There was laughter barely suppressed as he dragged John to the stairs.

“Well, please be quick about it,” Mycroft said, tartly. “I do not expect you to keep our guests waiting.”

“Pft,” Sherlock spat derisively.

“You know mummy, and father too, would not approve.”

“Don’t worry, Mycroft. I’ll make sure he sticks to the schedule,” John called back.

Greg watched them hurry upstairs and disappear around the corner of the landing, feeling envious. He felt like going back to bed himself and the evening wasn’t even half over. Silence fell again.

“Mycroft…” Greg began.

“Crofty, there you are!”

Greg swore under his breath as they both turned toward the source of the familiar voice. Charles Graham was striding toward them, holding out a hand to shake, drawing Mycroft in for a warm hug and grinning all over his handsome face.

“Well, look at you. How are you, old man?” He drew back, looking Mycroft in the eyes. “You’re different somehow, Crofty. What gives?”

“Charlie, good to see you too. I’m fine, as always. Yourself?”

“Never better. So….spill, Mike. What’s your secret? You look…” the man's eyes narrowed, “... _content_ , that’s it.”

“Charlie, I want you to meet Gregory.” Greg was subjected to the famous dark-eyed stare as the Royal Shakespeareian Company actor took in Mycroft’s companion from his shoes to his hair in one sweeping glance. Greg stuck out a nervous hand and it was gripped in a firm dry grasp and shaken warmly. “My partner,” Greg heard Mycroft say.

To hear himself described like that, without hesitation on Mycroft’s part, shook Greg a little. He looked at Mycroft, but the man was focused on his guest. When he looked back, Charles was smiling at him.

“Well, well. I wondered who would eventually grab the daft git’s heart. Easy to see why, Mike. Damn it, man,” he said to Greg, “I envy anyone who can wear hair like yours.” He smiled slyly. “So, Mike, you netted yourself a silver fox, eh? You lucky dog. I look forward to getting to know you better, Gregory.”

“Greg, please.”

“Nice to meet you, Greg. Don’t let him have his way all the time.”

Greg watched the man go into the drawing room, captured by Marrion’s warm welcome, trying to reconcile what he had just seen with the roles he had seen him play on film. A king in Game of Thrones, a brooding detective in a channel 4 drama, too many historical plays to count, a reputation for outspoken support of the LGBT community and a penchant for speeding; at least if Greg’s mates in Traffic were to be believed.

“You see, Gregory, Charles is delightfully normal.”

“Yeah, I can see that, for a posh toff actor with a privileged background…”

“Gregory! Do I detect jealousy?”

“Not on your Nelly, Holmes. How could I be jealous of him?”

“Well, you did fanboy a little when I originally mentioned he would be coming.”

“Well, yes, a bit. I mean, he’s famous, isn’t he? He’s an amazing actor, fantastic talent, everybody knows his face and wants to know him, but… well, I am one up on him.”

“Oh?”

“Well, the way he looks at you leads me to think he may have a thing for you, love. However, you don’t reciprocate, or you’d already be his partner, and I wouldn’t be here, so either he’s never asked, or he’s asked and you’ve refused. Either way, I’ve got you, haven’t I? He hasn’t. So stands to reason _he_ should be envious of _me_.”

Mycroft blushed a little at that. It was true that, years ago, Charles had made advances but Mycroft had stepped back, knowing that being partnered to a flamboyant and talented actor could be potentially damaging to his fledgling career, and there was something about Charles that had warned Mycroft not to go too far with the man. Even back then, well before fame had found him, Mycroft had recognised Charles’ talent as something that would take him a long way, something that would eventually catapult him into the public eye. His personality was such that self absorption and arrogance were inevitable, albeit with a certain kindness behind them. But...and it was a rather large But with a capital attached, Mycroft knew in his heart of hearts that they would have been very bad for each other; ultimately destructive and possessive and demanding things neither could deliver. He glanced over at Gregory and wondered. No matter how he ran the possibilities through his brain, assessed the potentials and adjusted the parameters, he could find few drawbacks in being with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. At least, he could foresee none of the negatives he had predicted where Charles was concerned.

“Mycroft, my good friend.” The speaker was a handsome man with dusky skin over angular features and the typical dark hair of the Arab. He was clad in a very fashionable take on his national dress, sporting subtle gold jewellery and a watch that probably cost more than Greg’s house. He was quiet though, a stark contrast to Charlie Graham’s over-the-top actor’s presence. He was dignified and calm, greeting Mycroft warmly, and leaning in to hug him. “I am sorry not to be down earlier but I had to take an important call. I have no peace, not even here…”

“So good to see you again, my friend.” Mycroft smiled and shook the man’s hand. “I understand perfectly. The onerousness of one’s duty catches up with one eventually. Now I want you to meet Gregory.” The man turned interested eyes upon him and Greg was subjected to another scrutiny, but this one was sharply assessing, curious. “My partner.” Mycroft again had no hesitation in telling the Prince that. “Gregory, I want you to meet Prince Achmed Ibn Ibrahim Ibn Mahoud. Of the Saudi Royal Family.”

“Pleasure, your Highness.” Greg held out a hand to shake, and found it gripped warmly.

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you, Gregory. Please, call me Achmed. Any friend of Mycroft’s is a friend to me also. We have known each other a very long time.” He turned to Mycroft and smiled. “I am pleased to see you move on, my friend. You have been alone too long.”

“Yes, well…”

“Forgive me, Gregory, but this man is...the best of friends, my best friend, a loyal man who cleaved to me when others did not. I do not forget such actions. I look forward to drinking your continued health, both of you.”

“Do go in, Achmed. We’ll be joining you shortly. Everyone is here now, I simply have to inform my staff of a small matter.”

“I understand. I will see you later.” He turned and swept away, and Greg watched him go with envy.

“That man...wouldn’t look out of place in Lawrence of Arabia. He’s certainly got more than his fair share of charisma.”

“My, my, Gregory, do I detect yet _another_ hint of jealousy?”

“No, you most certainly do not. But he does have something though…”

Mycroft smiled, hit the send button on his phone, and linked his arm through Greg’s. “Come, my dear. My staff know we’re all here and that we will be starting dinner soon, and we have a party to look forward to.”

 

“...straight up, it really _was_ a dust up in a flour factory. Everybody came out of that place covered head to foot in white. Looked like a bunch of extras from a ghost tour. Then the Fire Brigade turned up and let us know how bloody dangerous it was, considering the flash point of flour…” Mycroft watched Gregory hold court with ease, surrounded by an admiring group as he wove his improbable-enough-to-be-true tale, Peter, Achmed, and Charles among them. Hetty stood on the sidelines, observing.

“He will be very good for you, Mycroft,” she murmured confidently.

“I hope so, Hetty. I really do.”

“Have you told him about Jeremy yet?” Mycroft glanced at her with a slight frown. “If you do, he’ll understand.”

“Is that your famous judgement talking or an educated guess?”

“Both.”

“I told him. And yes, he does understand.” Mycroft watched as she smiled back at him triumphantly over the rim of her gin and tonic and drifted away in the direction of Lady Elizabeth Smallwood and Marrion who seemed to be deep in conversation about a new novel.

Several times over the evening Greg found himself touching the small box in his pocket and looking for Mycroft, trying to find a moment to get the man on his own. He had failed before dinner and it took almost all evening to do so, but he managed to corner the elusive British Government when he was pouring himself another drink and everyone else was seemingly otherwise engaged. “Mycroft? Got a minute?”

Mycroft turned to see a rather agitated version of his lover, and wondered what was causing the man such anxiety that he was bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation of... _what? An unfavourable outcome_ , his mind supplied.. “Gregory? What on earth is on your mind? You look a little...confounded?”

“That is an understatement, Myc. Listen...There’s something I want to say, but I couldn’t find the right time…”

Mycroft held up a hand and then lead his lover to a door, opening it onto the now-deserted library. Once the door closed behind them, Mycroft faced his new partner, put his head on one side and waited, trying to quell his own anxiety that something was not right for the man.

“I went and got you something…” Gregory blurted, then paused, fingering something in his pocket. “Two somethings actually. Look, I think I might be about to make a colossal idiot of myself…but...” He thrust a small box at Mycroft and waited anxiously.

Mycroft decided not to allow his mind to make assumptions, despite the nature of the box in his hand. He levered open the lid and looked inside. Nestled on a bit of cotton wool lay a plain yale key, a brass one, newly cut. “Gregory, is this what I think it is?”

“The key to my front door, yes,” Greg replied, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Look, I know it’s daft, I mean what on earth would you want to come to mine for when yours is so much better? But...well...it’s a gesture…”

“...of trust. I _do_ understand, Gregory, and I am profoundly humbled that I have not yet thought to give you the same. You have opened your heart and now your home to me. This is...It is not a matter of whose house is better or bigger or richer or poorer...This is…” Mycroft sighed, collecting his thoughts. “Again you prove how amazing you are. Thank you, my love. Thank you so much.”

“You really like it?”

“Of course I do, and I take it in the spirit in which it is delivered. If it is not too lame a gesture, I will have one made for you as well. I want you to feel as comfortable here as you obviously want me to feel at yours.” Gregory suddenly gave him a dazzling smile of relief and joy.

“Thank God, you understand.”

“Yes, I do. Gregory…”

“And there’s something else, underneath the key…”

“Something else?” Mycroft picked the bit of cotton wool padding delicately out of the box to reveal... _oh. A ring. Plain, narrow and obviously gold._

“Gregory...I…”

“It’s a promise ring, Mycroft," Greg blurted again. "You wear it on your right hand. I just...I wanted to show you I mean business with regard to our relationship. I am serious about us, and I know that while it’s too early for anything else, I hoped you’d see this as a promise of things to come…”

“Oh, my dear. I…I really do not know what to say.”

“Just say yes, that’s all I need. It’s not a proposal, Mycroft, just a promise to see what happens, to try. That’s all…”

“I unequivocally accept, Gregory.” Mycroft held the ring out and allowed Greg to slide it on his finger. It fit, and Mycroft found himself speechless once more.

“Here’s my promise. No matter what, I am going to do my best to be here for you, to build on what we have, and see where this year takes us. Regardless, I am going to see to it you get the best sex you’ve ever had. Deal?”

“Deal, my dear. I think I should perhaps suggest a redirection of your career. You would make a fine negotiator. In turn I promise you, Gregory, to do everything within my power to move heaven and earth so that we may benefit from our new found relationship. I cannot promise more than that. You of all people understand the demands on my time but...I will try.”

“Then we can’t say better than that, can we? Come on. Party’s waiting. People to tell, including your parents.”

“Gregory…” Mycroft pulled him up short.

“What?”

“Thank you, from the very bottom of my heart, for making my festive season...well, _festive_ again.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, love. And I promise you this. No more lonely Christmases, alright?”

“Alright, Gregory,” and Mycroft allowed his new man to lead him back into the party, fully aware that his festive seasons would never be quite the same again.


End file.
